


that second wind is coming

by elizabethgee



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, Food Issues, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Lambert, Lambert swears a lot, M/M, Mystery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Slow Burn, Smut, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Witcher Contracts, aftermath of starving, violence typical of the source material
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28434747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethgee/pseuds/elizabethgee
Summary: Lambert just wants to get out of Velen.Aiden makes that difficult.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher)
Comments: 74
Kudos: 117





	1. Rosemary

Halver Isle will be a three day trek south of Hindhold. The isle is currently suffering from a wraith problem…at least, that’s what one of the notice boards in Hindhold claimed…

It could also be a massive waste of his time, but he doesn’t have much choice at the moment. He needs a contract so he can purchase another horse. And some food. And he’s low on Swallow.

Lambert sighs heavily, watching his boots scuff up dirt along the narrow footpath. It’s a relief to be in the hills again, away from humans and the bog Hindhold. He feels like he can breathe for the first time in a week—the stench of that foul place giving way to fresh spring grasses, blooming tree foliage, rosemary and—

Surprise rattles in his chest and he looks up, feet nailing to the earth.

There’s a witcher seated on a tall horse in the middle of the path in front of him.

Very infuriatingly, Lambert’s first thought is: _He’s gorgeous_.

He’s taller and broader than Lambert; tanned skin scattered with scars and loose brown hair brushing against his ears. His vibrant green eyes almost glow in the crisp morning light.

_Shit._

_Cat witchers have green eyes. Best to avoid them,_ Vesemir’s voice echoes in his head.

Lambert blinks rapidly, hating that he’s been caught off-guard.

What should he do?

The decision is taken out of his hands as the witcher’s small smile splits wide. He dismounts with a smooth, easy motion, all feline grace.

Gods damn it all, he’s _pretty_.

“Hello,” the Cat says, stepping closer. Lambert takes an instinctive step back and the Cat’s eyes drop to the movement.

_Shit._

The Cat tilts his head, scanning Lambert head to toe, smile frozen. Lambert readjusts his grip on the bag slung over his shoulder, swallowing hard.

“Aiden,” the Cat says, taking another step forward and holding out his hand.

Lambert glances at the proffered hand—gloved like his own— and Vesemir’s voice prods at him, grating—

_“They’re prone to mental illness, with a strong leaning towards psychopathy…just as willing to take a contract on a human as they are on a monster—“_

_Fuck it._

He steps close and takes takes the witcher’s hand in his own. His grip is firm and sure, and the rosemary smell gets warmer. Something rattles dangerously in Lambert’s chest, like standing on the precipice of a cliff—

“Lambert.”

The Cat’s sharp teeth glitter in the sunlight and Lambert has no idea where to look— eyes snagging on the heavy dark lashes, the scar glancing across one eyebrow—

He’s been holding the Cat’s hand too long and he jerks away, stepping back.

“Nice to meet you, Lambert. I haven’t run into another witcher in a while. And a wolf, at that…” Aiden sweeps his hair off his face, watching Lambert watch him.

Lambert looks away hastily, fixing his gaze along the path in front of him. The only other witcher Lambert has run into didn’t pause to talk. They just passed by each other with knowing glances. This is…

He should have paid more attention to Eskel’s lectures about other witcher schools. He doesn’t respond, hoping the witcher will let it drop and go on his way. No luck.

“What brings you out here, wolf?”

“Contract,” Lambert admits, shoulders tensing.

“Well, I assumed so,” Aiden says, glancing over Lambert’s shoulder towards the clustered homes of Hindhold.

Lambert takes a slow breath, centering himself. He doesn’t want to walk past the Cat and leave his back open to him, but he has no other idea of how to get out of this…

“Oh, there are cannibals that way,” Aiden says, nonchalant, gesturing behind himself. Right where Lambert is headed.

“Why didn’t you take care of it,” Lambert asks before he can filter himself.

His fingers dig into the strap of his bag, waiting—

The first sign of violence and Lambert is taking this bastard down, no matter how fucking pretty he is—

But Aiden’s smile widens, carefree and light, and he steps around Lambert and spins around, walking backwards with his arms thrown wide. His horse follows him lazily, heavy hooves slow and calm against the dirt path.

“I’m busy,” Aiden grins, winking at Lambert like they know each other— like they’re _friends_ —

Lambert’s mouth pulls down at the sides. Vesemir would never let that excuse slide—

“You’re heading towards Hindhold,” Lambert asks, suspicion flaring in his gut.

 _Shut up,_ the red flags in his mind scream, _shut up and let him go—_

“I hear there’s a contract for a Cyclops.”

Lambert’s brow furrows and Aiden pauses, squinting at the look on Lambert’s face.

“What’s with the pout?”

“I’m not pouting,” he grumbles automatically, years of being teased by Eskel and Geralt making him balk instinctively.

How much is he supposed to tell this witcher? His gut is urging him to leave and let this stranger deal with whatever awaits him in Hindhold, but the townspeople didn’t mention anything about a Cyclops. They should have. Lambert was there and they were happy enough to have him kill the wyvern…Why not mention the Cyclops too?

Aiden is becoming more suspicious, bright eyes turning dark and glancing around for a trap—

“Is it confirmed,” he asks. Aiden’s glittering eyes snap to his.

“The Cyclops contract. Is it confirmed?”

“Why are you asking, wolf,” Aiden asks, shoulders dropping.

_Fuck._

“I don’t want your contract,” he snaps, lips curling.

“I was just there. There was a wyvern,” he explains, wondering _why_ he’s explaining, “No mention of a Cyclops.”

Aiden tilts his head again and Lambert can’t help but think of the tabby cat he saw in town, perched on a wood fence and watching him collect fools parsley from the side of the road with an mysterious, considering look on her face.

“That’s…very odd,” Aiden agrees. The witcher’s eyes drop to Lambert’s medallion.

“Where’s your horse?”

The question blindsides him and he gapes. He’s suddenly all too aware of his dirty armor in need of a waxing, his greasy hair, the twisting of his hungry stomach—

“Wvyern,” Lambert said, “haven’t managed to get another yet.”

He didn’t have the coin, really. The meager reward for the wyvern wasn’t enough to get a decent horse that could withstand the Path, and he wasn’t going to waste it on a nag who would fall to lameness within a week.

Aiden opens his mouth to say something and the hair on Lambert’s neck raises.

He drops low, spinning to face the direction Aiden came from and shoving his bag off his shoulder. His steel sword slides from its sheath with practiced ease and he waits, breathing slow. He hears Aiden unsheathe a blade behind him, and Lambert can’t decide which danger to focus on—

An arrow shrieks through the air, thudding into the dirt a scant few inches from Lambert’s left foot and he leaps right as several humans crash from the bushes onto the path, yelling wildly.

Lambert counts 8 men, dispatching the first one easily as the fool waves an axe high in the air.

Another one falls to his left under Aiden’s blade and the two witchers work quickly, cutting down the men methodically. Lambert’s breathing is elevated—

He hasn’t had a proper meal in several days and he didn’t meditate after taking down the wyvern and he’s _tired_ —

More men rush from the bushes and Lambert growls, readjusting his grip on his sword and bending his knees, preparing—

He throws Aard blindly towards the group, distracted as one of them rushes Aiden. He makes the decision without thinking—

The dagger strapped to his ankle is in his hand, then flying through the air, embedding itself in the man’s back just as the other witcher dispatches his opponent and turns towards Lambert.

The dead man drops like stone at Aiden’s feet.

Aiden’s eyes meet his and go wide—

Sharp, burning heat lances across Lambert’s shoulder beneath his pauldron and he yelps, falling away from the pain and landing hard on his back—

_Fuck._

The three remaining men sense blood and shift towards him—

The skinniest of the three lifts his sword high, bearing down on him, and Lambert shoves his blade up, steel lodging up under the cannibal’s ribcage and sticking. He twists, trying to get onto his feet, but he knows it will be too late—

Someone smelling of rot and sweat smacks into him and falls dead to the earth across his knees, Lambert’s own dagger piercing his neck. There’s a loud, resounding crack above him and he looks up to find Aiden holding the last man up by his head, neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

Aiden lets the man fall to the ground and steps back, looking around for any more cannibals. He barely looks ruffled, save a few smatterings of blood on his armor. The stench of viscera and blood stains the air, overpowering and sick. Lambert focuses his hearing, sensing only the shifting of shrubbery and grass.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Lambert kneels, chest heaving. He tries to cover his exhaustion by feeling for the wound at his shoulder.

It stings a bit, but it’s not too bad.

Lambert forces himself to his feet, retrieving his dagger from the dead man’s neck and dislodging his sword from where it stuck between the one cannibal’s ribs, grimacing as his arm burns.

“You’re hurt,” Aiden says, moving to stand in front of him— too close—

Lambert steps back quickly, wiping down his sword hastily.

“I’m fine. Just a cut.”

Aiden huffs and Lambert thinks of Eskel’s mother henning.

“Look,” Aiden starts, and Lambert grimaces.

“This is my fault. I didn’t kill these fuckers when I passed them earlier, and you got injured helping me.”

Lambert does not like where this is going.

“I have to camp for the night anyway— need to collect some Beggartick blossoms. We could—“

“No,” Lambert snaps. He wants to leave and lick his wounds in private, what the hell is wrong with this witcher?

And why does his chest feel so tight?

“Okay, it’s just— I’m also curious about the discrepancy in the Hindhold contracts— Lambert?”

_No. Don’t say my name like that. I don’t know you._

Lambert’s throat constricts. The world is going dark and fuzzy, but the sun is still up—

“Fuck. Poison,” he mumbles, looking down at the wound on his shoulder. Why is blood always such a shocking color?

His knees give out and he bites his cheek, bracing himself against the dirt.

A strong, gloved hand grips his jaw and tilts his head up. He’s too fucking _close_. Lambert gives a token growl, but his constant blinking negates any threat the sound may have held.

“Don’t grumble at me, wolf. I’m just trying to help,” Aiden says, turning his face towards the light.

His hand tugs at Lambert’s pauldron to get a better look at the wound and Lambert tries to shimmy away.

The grip on his jaw tightens.

“Stop.”

The command is firm— the light, kind voice dropped to a deep rumble.

Lambert freezes in shock, swallowing hard. His heart is beating too fast and his eyes _hurt._

“Look at me,” Aiden demands.

Lambert is helpless to resist and he forces himself to look into Aiden’s eyes. The green is shocking up close— glowing and clear—

“Contract your pupils,” Aiden demands. Lambert tries, but he can’t—

“Can’t—“ he grunts, squinting over Aiden’s shoulder.

“It’s some kind of paralytic poison. Won’t kill you, but it’ll be uncomfortable for a couple hours,” Aiden says, shifting to his feet. Lambert feels off kilter with his sudden absence—

“I have some White Honey.”

Lambert grits his teeth.

“Don’t—“

But Aiden is already digging through the large bag strapped to his horse’s saddle. There’s some hasty clinking and Aiden is back at his side.

He leans away, head starting to pound in pain.

“Don’t. I’ll be fine—“

“You’re going to be a problem, aren’t you, wolf? Just take the damn potion.”

“I’m not taking your—“

The strong fingers are back at his jaw, thumb digging into the hinge.

He can’t help the low whine that spills from his throat, shame blooming hot in his belly. This witcher could do anything to him right now and Lambert would be powerless to stop it—

His spotty vision focuses on Aiden uncorking the bottle with his teeth, then cold glass is being pressed to his lips.

He can smell the White Honey. It smells normal— warm and too sweet—

“Lambert. Drink.”

The hand on his jaw doesn’t let up, tilting the liquid into his mouth. He gives in, swallowing the contents of the vial.

“Thank you,” Aiden sighs, voice low and concerned in a way that has Lambert itching to _run_ —

Lambert becomes aware of his hands gripping Aiden’s breastplate _(When did that happen?)_ and he tears his hands away, jerking his jaw out of Aiden’s grip.

“Okay, that should help. Come on,” Aiden says, pulling Lambert to his feet with a strong grip on his biceps.

Lambert tries to resist Aiden’s tugging hands, feet digging into the earth. Vesemir’s warning about Cat Witchers echoes again and again in his head.

Aiden sighs, grip going soft against Lambert’s arm.

“Here,” he says, and Lambert feels something cool and hard being pressed into his palm. It’s a plain, sharp dagger, much like his own. Must be Aiden’s.

The witcher probably has several on his person— Lambert certainly does— but it’s the symbolic nature that has Lambert releasing some tension and letting the Cat pull him along the path, Aiden’s dagger tucked into his own belt. He’s no use as he is, and if the witcher wanted to kill Lambert he would have done it already.

He lifts Lambert up onto his horse with entirely too much ease—

“There’s a good girl, Amber. Yes, I know he’s very light—”

“Amber,” Lambert snorts.

“You’re in no position to sass me, wolf.”

“’M not light…” Lambert protests, tangling his fingers in the horse’s thick mane, shoulders slumping as the White Honey warms his blood. Fuck that’s a strong potion. It normally takes longer to hit him…

“Hmm,” Aiden hums, far too reminiscent of Geralt.

Lambert drops in and out of consciousness as Aiden leads them off the path. He sways, jolting awake to find Aiden pressing a firm hand to his thigh, bracing him in the saddle. The heat of him seeps through Lambert’s pants, burning and dangerous.

The world spins and Lambert closes his eyes.


	2. Haggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his misgivings, Lambert finds himself teaming up with Aiden for the Cyclops contract...  
> And Lambert sees a hint of that Cat Witcher violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there was only one room available at the tavern..... ;)

Lambert regains consciousness the next morning, heavily disturbed to find himself laying on the forest floor in a small clearing and covered by a thin rosemary-scented blanket.

Aiden’s packing his things onto Amber, irritatingly energetic and glowy. He looks exactly the same as he did yesterday, and Aiden takes a moment to observe his armor. It’s different than Lambert’s— thinner and more fluid looking, with the bare minimum of leather covering his chest, arms, and calves. Lambert feels vulnerable just looking at him. How can he stand to be so exposed?

“You coming with me to find out about the Cyclops?” Aiden asks when Lambert sits up. His teeth grind and he checks the wound on his shoulder to give himself time to think. The White Honey had done it’s job; the skin had scabbed over during the night, and the inflammation had gone down. There’s no scent of infection and Lambert breathes a sigh of relief.

He stands and rolls up the blanket, handing it to Aiden with an uncomfortable nod that he hopes the other witcher understands as appreciation.

“I’ll split the coin with you. 50/50,” Aiden suggests, slipping the blanket into on of his saddlebags.

_Hmm._

Lambert needs the coin. And the reward will probably be fairly high, given the danger inherent in a Cyclops hunt. He teeters on the edge, unsure what the best choice is. Geralt and Eskel would tell him to leave the cat witcher alone and continue on towards Halver Isle.

“I thought you were worried about me trying to steal the contract from you,” Lambert points out. “Now you’re saying you want to split the reward?”

“To be honest I don’t relish the idea of taking on a Cyclops on my own. It’ll be easier with two of us.”

Suspicion settles in Lambert’s chest like a snake coiling around itself, waiting for a predator to strike.

“Shake on it?” Aiden asks, holding his hand out. He’s not wearing any gloves, and Lambert stares at his broad hand—clean and strong, with small scars everywhere. His skin looks soft.

 _What the hell,_ Lambert thinks and takes his hand, shaking perfunctorily. He’s keeping a dagger ready at his side, though. Just in case.

Aiden grins brilliantly at him as though he’s done something magnificent, leading Amber out of their campsite and back onto yesterday’s path.

The feel of Aiden’s palm against his lingers all the way back to Hindhold.

\---

Lambert had hoped to never set foot in Hindhold again, but now he finds himself standing at the edge of town with a cat witcher, about to take on a shared contract for a Cyclops.

How did he end up in this situation?

Vesemir would be _furious_ if he knew what Lambert was doing, but somehow the thought just makes Lambert want to push a bit more…

His hackles rise as soon as they reach the first house, where the elderly sunburnt owner stops his gardening to glare suspiciously.

“I saw you leave just yesterday,” the man complains at Lambert, jowls quivering in anger as he points at Lambert, a couple anemic carrots swinging in his grasp.

“Why’ve you come back? We don’t want your kind here,” his wife says, sneering down her nose at him. Lambert abruptly remembers how she had spit at him as he left town yesterday and his stomach burns. She opens her mouth, no doubt ready to spew out a load of vicious complaints—

“I hear this town has a rather large monster problem, good lady,” Aiden interrupts, smooth as silk. He smiles politely, petting Amber’s neck with a gentle hand.

“We’d like to take care of that problem for you.”

The woman’s eyes dart to him, then the soft stroke of his hand along Amber’s neck, and her mouth closes—the curl of her lip softening just the slightest bit.

“Well at least _you_ have manners,” she says, throwing a haughty sneer at Lambert.

 _Hypocrite_ , Lambert wants to snarl. He grips the strap of his bag hard, keeping his face carefully blank.

“I wouldn’t know anything about monsters though, check the notice board near the center of town,” she says, one boney hand waving them on.

Lambert starts walking away before her sentence is finished, hearing Aiden thank the old hag politely before striding to catch up with him. Lambert carefully tunes out the couple’s harried muttering as soon as they walk away, not wanting to know what they’re saying.

They receive several more nasty glares, a couple indignant huffs, and one woman lets out a surprised gasp and runs inside her home at the sight of them.

“Pleasant people,” Aiden remarks, giving Lambert a knowing look. There’s humor in his gaze as though they’re in on a secret together. Lambert looks away hastily and hums, shoulders pulling tighter and forcing himself to walk slowly. He knows what happens when he startles humans.

A new message is tacked up right in the center of the notice board, the edges ruffling in the cold breeze.

“Wasn’t there yesterday, or the day before,” Aiden grumbles as Aiden leans close to read. He frowns and tears the message off the wood board, handing it to Lambert.

_Witcher needed._

_There’s a foul creature in the forest to the East._

_It’s killing our sheep and cows, leaving their remains strewn about the farmer’s lands._

_Several good men have been killed trying to take the on creature._

_T_ _hey dis-apeared into the forest three days previous and only one returned, claiming the monster to be a Cyclops._

_Contact Sidac Grur if you’re brave enough to take on the beast._

“That’s not how you spell ‘disappeared,’” Lambert says, handing the paper back to Aiden. Aiden takes it, his fingers brushing softly along the back of Lambert’s hand, leaving a trail of heat along Lambert’s skin.

“Well, should we find this person first, or ask your contact why he didn’t mention a Cyclops that’s been terrorizing the town?”

And Aiden looks to him, waiting. Shit. He honestly hadn’t thought that far ahead, and it sounds like Aiden plans for them to do all of this _together_.

“Cyclops first,” Lambert suggests, trying to sound sure. Aiden nods easily in agreement, and with some poking around at a nearby bar they find the man’s location.

\---

Sidac Grur’s home is near the North West edge of Hindhold, on a decent chunk of unused farmland surrounded by old trees. The soil on the lot looks sick and overused, and Lambert slips his gloves on as they walk to the door. Best to be prepared.

The short old man reeks of fear when he opens the door and finds two witchers peering down at him.

“Ah! You’ll be here about the Cyclops then. Please come in,” he rambles, gesturing them into his small domicile. Lambert hesitates but Aiden just waltzes right in, thanking the man for his hospitality. Lambert follows with a short nod at the man, not liking how his beady eyes dart between them. Lambert gets the distinct impression that he wasn’t expecting anyone to show up.

“Lad!” Sidac barks at a skinny young boy scrubbing manically at the dirty floors. “Go get Bryan, tell him there’s witchers here ‘bout the Cyclops.”

They watch the boy scurry out the back door with the energy of a child used to beatings. Lambert squints at Sidac, filing the information away for later.

“Bryan was the only lad to’ve seen the monster an’ lived,” Sidac says, sitting heavily at his kitchen table, wiping his oily brow with a rag. He doesn’t invite them to sit at his table.

“He’ll be able to give ya the long and short of it,” Sidac continues, filling time.

“Wasn’t expecting two of ya.”

_Clearly,_ Lambert thinks. This is the person who put up the notice? Normally a town leader sets up the contract when there's a monster as large as a Cyclops terrorizing a town of this size. Lambert crosses his arms and waits, darting occasional glances at Aiden. The Cat looks completely unbothered, staring with blatant interest at the large chest at the foot of Sidac’s bed.

_Don’t you dare even think about it—_

Lambert’s thought cuts off as the skinny child runs back in with another man in tow.

“Bryan,” Sidac motions the man closer. “Tell these witchers what ya saw of the beast.”

Bryan quails under their gaze and Lambert immediately questions his reliability. He’s a lanky young man covered in sweat; his dirty skin is pale and drawn and his fingers twitch like spider legs.

“Well, uh,” Bryan stumbles, jumpy eyes dancing around the room.

“It was huge— towering, with one eye right in the middle of its face,” he says, and Lambert guesses the reason this boy survived was because he took one look at the monster and fled.

Lambert pokes and prods, dragging details out of him while Aiden watches, looking supremely bored.

As far as the boy remembers, the beast was nearly as tall as the redwoods in the forest (Lambert doubts it), with mottled white skin and standing upright like a man. The third time he mentions the single eye Lambert interrupts and asks him to draw a map of where they found the creature. He takes the hastily drawn sketch, grimacing at the crude instructions.

“And what’s the reward for killing the monster?” Aiden speaks for the first time, turning his sharp eyes to Sidac.

Sidac jars himself up from where he’d been staring out into the middle distance, fingers rubbing at his chapped lips

“Oh, yes, of course. The reward is at 200 oren, currently, pooled from the town—“

“250,” Aiden interrupts. Lambert swallows, struggling not to turn wide eyes towards the Cat. What is he doing?

“Well, see here, boys—“ Sidac grumbles.

“We’re not boys, we’re witchers. We risk our lives to kill monsters that no one else dares approach. 250,” Lambert haggles.

“225," Sidac counters, face turning mean and sour.

“240,” Aiden says, leaning over the old table between them to stare into Sidac’s face, letting his bulk loom over the man.

Sidac’s face crumples under the weight of Aiden’s glowing gaze and he throws his hands up.

“Ah, alright you greedy bastard, 240!” Sidac concedes, muttering to himself as he ushers them from his home.

Aiden tosses a sly wink at Lambert as they step out onto the road and his stomach jolts like he’s missed a step.

“Hey Lambert,” Aiden says, running a hand along his neck as they step back out onto the road. Lambert forcibly does not watch the movement.

“Hm?”

“You ever see a Cyclops in a forest?”

Lambert narrows his eyes.

“Nope.”

“Me neither,” Aiden says, untying Amber from Grur’s rickety fence and leading them back towards the main square.

\--- 

“So, who set up the contract for the wyvern?” Aiden asks, nudging Lambert’s shoulder with his as they meander along the road. Lambert shifts away from the touch, avoiding the Cat’s gaze.

“Corbin Gubini,” Lambert says, shoulders slumping at the prospect of seeing the man again. He had been unpleasant enough before, no doubt he’ll be completely vile if Lambert shows up at his door again.

“Small, ratty looking guy. Wouldn’t look me in the eye,” Lambert grumbles, then wants to smack himself. Why does _that_ fucking matter? Who cares if a human won’t look him in the eye? He wouldn’t look at himself, either, given the choice.

“Let’s find him tomorrow,” Aiden suggests. “I need food. And we need rooms for the night.”

Lambert agrees, knowing that if he doesn’t eat soon he’ll be in trouble. He’s getting lightheaded as it is.

Just their luck— the only tavern with a vacancy is a crowded place right off the main square. Lambert would prefer to find a place near the edge of town, but Aiden insists that this one is good enough.

“Only got the one room, though,” the crotchety innkeeper says, watery eyes glaring at them over the front counter.

Lambert tenses. He _never_ shares a room, unless it’s for a quick fuck, and even then he’s usually gone as soon as they’re done…

“I’m good with that,” Aiden says, turning guileless eyes to Lambert.

Something makes Lambert nod in agreement. Maybe it’s the prospect of an actual mattress, or a warm bath. Maybe it’s the subtle pleasure of defying Vesemir. Or maybe it’s the weird, dangerous desire to learn more about the cat witcher.

 _It’s the mattress,_ he thinks, firmly, doling out half the coin for the room and watching the golden pieces disappear into the innkeeper’s swollen hands.

 _Shit._ Now he really does need that coin from the Cyclops contract.

\---

“When’s the last time you ate?” Aiden asks as they drop their bags in the small room. Lambert releases a sigh at the sight of two narrow beds against separate walls, so at least Lambert can sleep on his own mattress.

“Yesterday,” Lambert grunts, carefully leaving out that he ate a single apple yesterday morning—

“Will you grab a table downstairs? I’ll get ale,” Aiden promises, disappearing into the bathing room before Lambert can complain.

 _The fuck?_ He doesn’t need this strange witcher doing things for him, putting him in debt—

He lets out a token growl to the empty room and stomps downstairs.

It’s a well-kept tavern. The floors are relatively clean despite the crowd of people and warm candles illuminate the room from floor to ceiling. There’s an oversized hearth opposite the bustling bar, keeping every corner of the room warm and comfortable. Lambert would prefer forthere to be a little bit of darkness and a little less crowd.

 _It’s too loud_ , Lambert thinks, crossing his arms and glaring at anyone who looks his direction. He doesn’t like loud. It’s distracting, and he gets overwhelmed with all the input. There are too many sounds and smells and flashy colors. He adjusts his gauntlets needlessly, grateful to at least have the protection of his armor in this place.

Apparently it doesn’t bother Aiden at all— the Cat darts into the common room sans armor a couple minutes after Lambert settles.

 _Gods fucking damn it_ , Lambert frowns, watching the witcher head to the bar.

Seeing Aiden without his armor feels dangerous. It’s not his clothing that’s surprising; he’s wearing normal clothes— a black shirt and dark pants. It’s that he’s so unprotected in a tavern full of inebriated humans. It’s that Lambert can see the breadth of his shoulders more clearly, and the dip of his strong waist, and the muscles of his back through his shirt—

The Cat better bring some ale over here soon.

He busies himself with listening in on a tense game of gwent at the table next to him. They’ve tied, and the third round is just starting…

“I ordered food too,” Aiden says, dropping into the seat across from him and pushing a pint of ale across the table. Lambert’s eye twitches.

“How much was it?” he asks, reaching for his coin purse.

“Free,” Aiden smirks. “Oh don’t look at me like that. I managed to charm the lady at the bar into giving the handsome, brooding witcher in the corner a free meal. You know, seeing as how he took care of the town’s wyvern problem and all.”

Lambert’s brain stalls on “handsome.” Never in his life has anyone said—

“Wipe that shocked look off your face, wolf. You’re welcome,” Aiden says, smiling over the rim of his ale.

The food is delicious, but Lambert forces himself to eat slowly so as not to get sick. Besides, he wants to enjoy this free meal (though a scratching feeling at the back of his mind reminds him that there’s no such thing). There’s a stew overflowing with savory grains and thick root vegetables in a fragrant sage broth. It comes with a heavy slice of dark, seedy bread that makes Lambert’s mouth water just with the scent.

He glares around the tavern once the food is gone, noting all the people there and all the sharp glances they’re getting.

“What do you think?” Aiden asks, licking his spoon clean.

“Hm?” Lambert asks, eyes lingering on Aiden’s food reddened lips.

“About the supposed Cyclops. I think they’re lying.”

“Def—“ Lambert stops, spying a suspiciously familiar dirty red hat amongst the crowd.

Aiden says something, but Lambert is busy staring at the man across the room.

“That’s him,” Lambert says, “with the vile hat.”

Aiden turns and peers through the crowd.

“The one with the scraggly beard?”

“Mhmm.”

Aiden slides out of his seat and starts sauntering over.

“Wait—“ Lambert hisses, leaping up to follow the Cat.

“Pardon me,” Aiden says, voice booming over the small party. They flinch and twist around to stare up at the witcher. There are only 4 men at the table, but their disdain is palpable enough that Lambert wants to turn around and leave.

Corbin’s eyes find Lambert behind Aiden and he frowns.

“What are _you_ doing here—“

“Let me introduce myself,” Aiden interrupts. “My name is Aiden. Now, if you can’t tell, I’m a witcher. I kill monsters for a living so that humans can feel safe in their homes. Now, my friend Lambert here is also a witcher.”

Lambert keeps his face still and blank, feeling eyes swivel to him and crawl along his skin.

“Now, I ran into Lambert yesterday as he was leaving your little town, and he told me that he took care of a nasty wyvern problem for you.”

“Aye, that’s true,” Corbin says, eyes darting around the tavern.

“And yet I’m two towns over and I hear about a Cyclops problem in little old Hindhold. Now how is it that this witcher—” Aiden points at him and Lambert’s skin prickles, “—who was already here didn’t hear about that same contract?”

“I…I don’t know what you’re implying— I paid the witcher his due—“ Corbin fumbles, glancing futilely at his companions for help.

“Why didn’t he know about the Cyclops?” Aiden asks, voice flattening.

"I—“ Corbin’s nervous eyes darted around, the sour smell of sweat pouring off of him.

“I just put up the sign for the wyvern. I don’t know anything about a Cyclops! I paid the witcher his due—“

“And how much was that?” Aiden asks. Lambert wonders if the men are too drunk to notice how Aiden’s jovial attitude is turning sour and still.

“Well, now, it’s not polite to talk money when—“ Corbin blusters.

“How much?” Aiden asks, voice dropping low and demanding. He steps closer to Corbin, and Lambert sees exactly how this is going. Lambert’s hands go unnaturally still at his sides, fingers itching for a sword…

“30 oren,” Lambert says, desperate to quell the rising tension.

Lambert hears Aiden stop breathing, staring down at Corbin’s hunched shoulders for a long moment before turning dead eyes to Lambert.

“You wanna say that again, wolf?”

Lambert blinks, heart ratcheting up.

“30 oren,” he says, though this time it comes out like a question. _Why—_

In one smooth movement Aiden yanks Corbin from his seat and slams him down onto the table. The old wood surface creaks ominously, swaying under their weight. His companions yelp and scurry back, huddling together in a drunken daze. Aiden looms over Corbin, fist clenched in the man’s worn shirt.

“You paid a witcher 30 oren to kill a wyvern?” Aiden asks. His voice sounds weird— quiet— and Lambert’s feet shift, bracing wide in anticipation of violence. People are shuffling away from the commotion; human heart beats ramping up all around them.

“It’s what I had to offer—“ Corbin protests, face turning bright red.

Aiden lands a sharp punch to Corbin’s face, snapping his nose so quickly that even Lambert blinks in surprise. Shocking red pours from his nose, dripping down onto the wood table.

“Aiden—“ Lambert mumbles.

Wary, startled eyes are watching them, human bodies shifting away, the scent of fear soaking the air—

“Somehow I don’t believe you,” Aiden snaps, ignoring all the terrified people.

“You’re here, in this lovely tavern, eating and drinking with several other people. And from appearances it looks like you have no problem buying rounds for everyone,” Aiden leans close, baring his teeth.

“I wouldn’t do that shit job for less than 60 oren.” Aiden growls, pressing his fist into Brian’s sternum. “So why don’t you give the witcher what he’s owed?”

 _Don’t cause trouble,_ Vesemir’s voice murmurs in Lambert’s ear.

“Aiden—“ Lambert hisses. The Cat ignores him, pressing harder against the man’s chest.

Corbin groans, feet kicking uselessly at the stone floor.

“Give him what he’s owed, or I’ll break your nose again, so it can’t be set properly,” Aiden threatens, voice hissing out like steam.

Corbin’s eyes bulge and he nods frantically.

“Okay, ‘kay, fine,” he agrees, heaving a gasping breath as Aiden lessens the pressure on his chest.

“Good. And if you ever stiff a witcher again, I’ll do much, much worse,” Aiden promises, reaching down and with one hard jerk sets his broken nose.

He yells, hand covering his face, failing to stem the flow of blood.

Aiden steps back, looking slowly around the tavern until all the humans avert their eyes. They quickly start murmuring to each other, whispering behind their hands. Lambert wonders how long it will be before they’re thrown out of town.

“We’re waiting,” Aiden says, observing his nails for grime as Corbin fumbles with his (rather hefty) coin purse, doling 30 more oren out into Lambert’s palm.

“Thank you,” Aiden says, monotone, turning and walking back to their table as though nothing happened. Lambert follows him, tucking the oren into his purse.

What the _fuck_?

“The hell was that?” Lambert hisses, adrenaline rattling around his stomach.

“You’re welcome,” Aiden says, lounging back against the wall and smiling at him. He looks utterly relaxed and unconcerned with the excitement he’s caused.

“You’re going to get us run out of town,” Lambert points out.

“No great loss. This town is horrible. Frankly, it’d be a pleasure to be run out of it. Besides,” Aiden’s eyes dart around the tavern pointedly, “I get the feeling that Corbin’s not particularly popular around here.”

And sure enough, Lambert notices a few pleased eyes amongst the flustered crowd, watching Corbin stem the flow of blood from his nose as he stumbles from the tavern.

“Look, they won’t run us out of town until we take care of the supposed Cyclops. Might as well get paid properly before then.”

Lambert sits down, the 30 oren burning a hole in his purse, and his heart thuds. Aiden has doubled the amount of coin he received for the wyvern job. He looks across the table, watching Aiden pick at the remnants of his bread and smile, lighthearted, as he watches a couple of women start flirting with each other near the hearth.

What’s the witcher’s angle? What is he going to want from all of this?

 _Am I walking into a trap?_ Lambert wonders.

Vesermir's response resounds in his head:

_Yes._


	3. Convenient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys learn a bit more about the "Cyclops" contract and Aiden pushes a bit too hard.

“This doesn’t look like a Cyclops attack.”

The early morning light finds the two witchers standing on an abandoned plot of farm land next to Sidac’s place, where the human had piled all the mutilated sheep corpses from the monster’s latest attack into a heap.

 _Convenient for witchers trying to track down a monster,_ Lambert thinks.

A thick, old forest runs parallel to the town’s edge, separated from the houses by empty lots meant to be used as farm land. The dirt is too clay-filled to be of any use in growing crops, leaving the empty fields as a kind of moat between humanity and the untamed wilderness.

Lambert wrinkles his nose at the smell of rotting sheep, stepping away and trying to smooth out the disgust on his face.

“I agree. No way a monster did this,” Lambert says, glancing back at the small pile of corpses. The sheep _are_ mutilated. Badly. But it’s all too precise and surgical to have been a monster attack.

“If it were a Cyclops, pieces would be missing,” Aiden says, crouching down near the pile, handsome face placid and unbothered by the stench. “There would be bite marks, and they would have been _torn_ apart— look at this—“ Aiden holds up a lamb leg, waving it in the air towards Lambert.

“Yes, I saw it—“ Lambert says hastily, stepping away quickly to avoid some dangerously swaying congealed guts clinging to the severed limb.

“This looks like they were cut up with something sharp,” Aiden says, dropping the leg onto the pile again.

It lands with a sick flop and Lambert swallows to control his gag reflex.

“Someone’s fucking with us,” Lambert says, clenching his jaw and looking up into the gray sky to try and clear his sinuses of the rot. He hates this fucking town, with its lies and its greed and its _cruelty_. And on top of this nasty turn of events he can smell approaching rain.

“I thought Sidac agreed to the contract price too easily,” Lambert mourned.

“And,” Aiden says, turning his sharp gaze towards the line of houses. “You know what Cyclops are like—“

Lambert doesn’t, he hasn’t even _seen_ a Cyclops before, but no way is he telling Aiden that—

“—they _hate_ humans. This close to a town full of people and the beast _doesn’t_ attack them? That doesn’t make sense.”

Lambert looks out across the fields, eyes searching the thick morning fog and seeing nothing alive— not even ground squirrels.

Something about it makes Lambert’s skin prickle, but before he can suggest they go back to Sidac and demand an answer, Aiden starts striding out towards the forest.

_What is he doing?_

Lambert’s pauses, torn. Should he follow the Cat? Or should he go back to question Sidac?

“You coming?” Aiden asks, green eyes peering over his shoulder. Lambert’s feet decide for him and he jogs to catch up with Aiden’s long strides.

“What are you thinking?” Lambert asks, tugging at the frayed hem of his gloves with fiddly anxiety.

“I glanced at that idiot’s map last night— completely useless— but I gather that the supposed monster is up on that ridge—“ Aiden points towards their right, up along a large, mist covered mountain peak.

“Wait—“ Lambert tries.

“—so if we go see what’s in that area I’m sure we can—“

“Stop,” Lambert snaps, stepping in front of the Cat and pressing a hand into his leather vest, forcing them to a standstill.

Time freezes.

_Fuck._

Lambert’s heart thumps hard against his ribcage and Aiden’s round eyes blink at him, transfixed.

Lambert swallows hard and snatches his hand back, palm burning.

“You can’t just—“ Lambert stumbles, licking his lips. _Don’t tell another witcher what to do_ , his mind shrieks at him.

“Were you just going to walk out there?” Lambert asks.

Aiden blinks, eyes lingering around Lambert’s jaw with a dumbstruck look on his face.

“ _Aiden_.” 

The Cat’s eyes snap back up to his, burning, and Lambert suddenly feels like _prey_. His hackles rise, but he doesn’t precisely feel like he’s in danger. He feels…caught… like he should show his neck.

He takes a step back in surprise, waving a hand up around Aiden’s eyes to try and break him out of whatever weird stupor he’s in.

“Hey!” he snaps.

Aiden jerks his head as though waking from something, glancing up towards the mountain. Lambert swallows hard, frantically shoving away the weird urge to…do what exactly? He straightens his spine and drops his shoulders back, shivering as blood floods along his loosened muscles.

“You weren’t going to just go out there, right? Without any idea what we’re facing?” Lambert asks again, incredulous.

Aiden pauses, eyes shuffling across Lambert’s face as though looking for something.

“What would you do?” he asks, completely serious.

“You’re kidding,” Lambert says, disbelief heavy in his chest. “I would go and talk to Sidac. Ask him what he’s playing at— lying to us about this supposed monster.”

The small frown between Lambert’s brows smoothes out.

“Smart wolf,” Aiden praises, eyes softening with a warm, pleased smile.

Lambert turns and walks away, teeth grinding as the weird ache returns.

“Can’t believe you would just go out there without any information,” Lambert grumbles, holding his breath as he walks by the pile of dead animal. Aiden jogs after him, catching up easily.

“I had heard that wolf witchers were big on planning. Nice to know that rumor is true,” Aiden says, hovering near his shoulder as they step back onto the main road.

“Oh yeah? And Cats just barrel into situations without any information?”

“Sometimes,” Aiden says in a voice that implies it’s a much more frequent occurrence than ‘sometimes.’

“Gods,” Lambert murmurs, shaking his head. “How are you alive?”

“I assume it has something to do with my irresistible charm and good looks,” Aiden says, and Lambert scoffs at the cocky smile Aiden throws his way, quickly shoving away the bubbling feeling in his chest.

\---

He stomps up the worn path to Sidac’s front door, banging his fist on the cracking wood.

“Sidac! Open up,” he snarls.

“I like you angry, wolf,” Aiden says, crossing his arms and leaning against the house next to the door, smirking at Lambert.

They can hear movement on the other side of the door— a hushed curse aimed at Melitele and careful footsteps across the old wood floor—

“Sidac! We know you’re in there,” Lambert yells, peripherally aware of a young couple stopping in the street to watch the action.

Aiden sighs, shooing Lambert away from the door. He turns his back to the door, winks at Lambert’s confused frown, and kicks back hard. The flimsy lock cracks and the door gives, creaking open. Sidac yelps from within.

“Aiden—“ Lambert frowns, but the Cat just spins around and struts into the house, unbothered.

“Hey there, Sidac,” Aiden says, pulling a dagger from his belt.

_What—?_

Before Lambert can panic Aiden drops to a seat at the old man’s table and slams the blade down into the wood, lodging it deep into the surface. Lambert steps inside and pauses in the doorway, crossing his arms. The couple on the street hurries away, whispering to each other.

 _Great,_ Lambert thinks, full of bitter sarcasm. _News of witchers breaking into people’s homes will make it’s way around town quickly. It’s looking more and more likely that they’ll end up being run out of town._

Lambert glances around and finds Sidac backed up against his own wall, eyes wide as griffin eggs.

“Have a seat,” Aiden demands, gesturing across Sidac’s own table to the empty bench.

Lambert watches Sidac try to muster the courage to be insulted about being invited to sit at his own table, but the human just shuffles across the room and sits with trembling limbs.

“So we went and had a look at those mutilated sheep,” Aiden says, leaning forward and peering into Sidac’s watery eyes.

“Oh?” Sidac mumbles.

“Tell me, Sidac, do you think witchers are dumb?” Aiden asks.

“N-no!” Sidac stumbles, terrified eyes darting between them. “It’s not like that, I swear! It wasn’t supposed to be no funny business—“

“Tell us what’s going on,” Lambert says, exhaustion settling in his bones.

“There’s a creature! I swear it! We just don’t know what it is, and our livestock have been going missing. We just thought there was no way we could get any help unless we had proof. We've tried to find the creature, honestly. And people have gone missing hunting for it! Three people these past couple months. “

Aiden’s eyes dart over to Lambert and he knows they’re thinking the same thing. Sidac’s telling the truth.

“So you mutilated a bunch of your own sheep?” Lambert asks.

“Yes,” Sidac says, eyes going sad and distant.

“But you see, we don’t have much here. The town scrapes by, year after year, and our livestock going missing is...We just needed proof to get help!”

“Why didn't you just tell us this before?" Lambert asks, running a hand down his face.

Sidac insists, again, that they have no _proof_. Lambert doesn't have to energy to explain that they didn't _need_ proof, they just needed to agree to a contract and Lambert and Aiden would have taken on the monster anyway—

"I’ll go find the creature,” Lambert says, watching Sidac sit up with surprised pleasure and ignoring Aiden’s glare.

“ _We’ll_ go find the creature,” Aiden amends, prying his dagger from the wood table.

“Should just leave you to rot, but the wolf is too kind-hearted for that,” Aiden mumurs, eyes boring holes into the anxious human.

Lambert’s throat clenches. Kind-hearted? Him? This Cat really is insane.

There’s a soft scuffling sound in the next room and Lambert immediately hones in on the sound. It’s the boy that lives here— the one who Sidac had yelled at. He’s hiding, breath coming fast and shallow.

Lambert’s brow furrows at the sound of the child’s terror.

“We’ll be back to collect the promised reward,” Lambert says, waiting for Sidac to nod before he turns and walks out the door. He steps out onto the main road and pauses to breathe, unclenching his tight jaw and rubbing at the tense muscle.

Aiden joins him, sliding his dagger back into his belt.

“So you were all ready to walk out into the forest without any information to take on some unknown monster?” Aiden parrots his own words back at him, smiling gleefully at the turn of events.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Lambert sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I should stock up on some supplies, make some potions.”

“There’s an apothecary near the tavern,” Aiden says, already heading that way.

Lambert mourns the additional hit to his already light purse, but the potions will keep for a long time. If he doesn’t use them now, they’ll be useful later.

Whenever he’s tempted to go after a monster without a basic set of potions he remembers the story Geralt told him when Lambert was a child. He had sat in his bed, shaking after a nightmare full of remembered pain from the Trial of the Grasses, and Geralt had told him about a contract where he failed to stock up on White Honey before going after a kikimore. He had ended up so full of toxicity that he barely survived— saved only by the kindness of a passing stranger.

Whenever Lambert is tempted to skip stocking up on potions the story jumps to mind, which is no doubt what Geralt intended, the prick. It had saved his life several times, though, so he can’t really be mad.

A sudden, overwhelming ache to see his brothers lodges behind his sternum. _He misses them_. It’ll be time to head to Kaer Morhen soon, and he finds himself looking forward to it for the first time in several years.

\---

Agreeing that it’s best to start out into the woods early the next morning, they spend the day preparing sword oils and potions, eyeing each other’s processes with poorly concealed interest.

And Lambert can’t deny that the idea of sleeping on a mattress for one more night is far more appealing than a night in that dense forest, which is how they find themselves eating in the common room again that evening.

The kitchen is serving roasted vegetables this evening and Lambert’s mouth waters at the scent—garlicky potatoes, thick sliced carrots, fragrant beets, caramelized onions, and crispy broccoli piled high on everyone’s plates.

This time Lambert insists on paying for his own meal, frowning at Aiden’s subsequent pout. And if an additional slice of fresh baked bread appears on his plate, well, Lambert doesn’t question it.

“What other rumors have you heard?” Lambert asks Aiden, leaning against the back of the wood bench, pleasantly full. He crosses his ankles in front of him and takes a long gulp of the tavern’s crisp ale.

Aiden cocks his head to the side, squinting in question.

“You said that you heard a rumor that wolf witchers are planners. What other rumors have you heard?” It’s a dangerous line of questioning and he should absolutely not encourage this, but the ale here is strong and he’s had enough to feel pleasantly fuzzy. And he grudgingly admits to himself that the cat witcher is good company; he’s funny, quick witted, and he _listens_ to Lambert as though what he has to say matters.

“Oh, lots of things,” Aiden says, glee filling his face. “Many, many interesting things. I’ve heard that wolf witchers have fangs, which I can see is not true. And I’ve heard that you travel in packs, which is clearly not true. Unless you’re a lone wolf?”

Lambert shakes his head and Aiden continues:

“But most interesting of all, I’ve heard that wolf witchers have knots.”

He leers at Lambert, eyes sparkling with mirth, and Lambert is so distracted by how pretty he is that the words don’t register.

“Knots?” he asks, brain automatically shifting to all the rope he has in his bag. It’s decent rope, but there are no knots—

“Yes, my dear wolf, a knot,” Aiden says, verdant eyes sliding suggestively down to Lambert’s crotch. Lambert’s loopy brain clues in on the insinuation and a burning blush floods Lambert’s cheeks.

Oh wow. He gapes at Aiden, heart jumping wildly in his chest.

“Oh,” he says, stupidly.

“Oh? That’s all you have to say?” Aiden teases, and he’s somehow closer than he was a moment ago.

“Y-yes. I mean, no, of course we don’t— who told you that?” Lambert stumbles, mortified.

Aiden’s leans into his space, looming over him, and Lambert feels _small_ —

“Well, it’s just a rumor.” Aiden smiles, teasing, and Lambert sucks in a sharp breath, drowning in rosemary.

“That’s definitely not true. We just have normal—” Lambert cuts himself off, swallowing hard and looking away from that too intense gaze.

Lambert abruptly thinks about the rumors he hears about Cats. They’re all bad rumors— like that cat witchers are psychotic, and aggressive, and that they take out contracts on humans as well as monsters. He doesn’t remember many details from what Vesmir and Eskel have told him besides how to recognize them and that it’s best not to trust them.

He looks up at Aiden and wonders why. Aiden has treated him better than anyone else ever has. The Cat must see something in Lambert’s gaze because his smile softens, eyes going warm and pupils expanding, swallowing up the green of his irises.

The Cat presses a strong thigh up against Lambert’s, arm dropping behind Lambert’s shoulders to rest on the bench backrest.

The blush across Lambert’s cheeks deepens, thigh burning where Aiden presses up against him. What is he _doing_?

Lambert frantically tries to piece everything together; the free meal, the compliments, and the teasing rumor.

Shit. Is he just looking to get _laid?_

Lambert stares at Aiden; his long, dark eyelashes and the handsome curve of his clean-shaven jaw. The shiny hair, falling across his forehead. The heat of his body— so close and intoxicating.

And Lambert thinks of himself; tired and cranky, with dark stubble along his jaw. There are hollow, dark circles under his eyes from lack of steady food and sleep. Three long claw marks on the right side of his face stretch from his forehead down to his cheekbone. His clothes are in need of replacing, and his hair is in need of a good cut. No one in their right mind would want to sleep with him— it’s why he has to pay for touch when the ache becomes too much.

Maybe Aiden just sees how desperate Lambert is and thinks he will be an easy lay. Maybe Lambert is just _convenient._

Something sours in his belly— a tearing pain gaping wide in his guts.

Oh, that _hurts._

He slides away, standing on wobbly legs.

“I’m gonna get some sleep. Early start tomorrow,” he mumbles, heading towards the staircase to their room. He doesn’t look back to see Aiden’s reaction.


	4. White Myrtle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They set out to find the town's monster.  
> Aiden acts like everything is normal, and Lambert is confused.

Aiden acts like the previous night didn’t happen— stumbling out of bed and packing his gear with his usual easy energy. A sudden, overwhelmingly heavy sensation in Lambert’s gut has him blurting out that he’s going to the town market, and he slips out of the room before Aiden can say anything.

That’s fine that Aiden’s pretending nothing happened— that’s what Lambert _wants_ — but he can’t forget the look in Aiden’s eyes when he leaned into Lambert’s space and _teased_ him. And Lambert can still feel the burning heat of Aiden’s strong thigh against his…

He walks mindlessly through the small market, purchasing some seeds and nuts and listening as the merchant sells the same product to the person behind him in line for much less coin.

Instead of the usual thunder of rage he would normally feel, a blanketing grief drop onto his shoulders. He’s _tired—_ exhaustion settling into his bones and making him drag his feet as he heads back to the tavern.

A woman dodges away from him on the street, letting out gasp of surprise as he passes. A child gawps openly at him, dark eyes trailing along his scarred face and the swords strapped to his back. A man spits in his direction, complaining about mutants contaminating their town.

_You don’t need my help making this town shitty,_ Lambert thinks viciously.

By the time he makes it back to the tavern he’s worked up a howling storm in his head. Aiden doesn’t say anything, even though Lambert knows he’s being maudlin and cold. The Cat witcher just meets Lambert outside the tavern with Amber and starts walking towards the mountains, giving him space to sort through his thoughts.

His teeth creak with pressure and he takes a slow, deep breath, relaxing his jaw. He needs to focus on signs of monster activity—the quicker the job is done, the quicker he can get out of this town. He follows behind Aiden and Amber as they cross the barren fields, watching the cat witcher reach out and stroke Amber’s neck every once in a while.

Lambert decides that he’ll forget about last night’s disaster. If Aiden isn’t going to say anything then Lambert won’t be the one to bring it up. He’ll get the job done, collect the money, and leave. He won’t have to see Aiden again.

_He won’t see Aiden again._

Lambert finds himself frowning, brow furrowed at the ground as they reach the edge of the forest.

It was nice to have someone be kind to him. But if the kindness is just a ruse to get laid, well— Lambert wants nothing to do with that.

“Ready?” Aiden asks, looking back at him for the first time since they left the tavern.

Lambert nods and they step into the woods.

\---

The day has been long and frustrating— the trees are so densely packed that finding a way through is slow going. Amber has stopped several times and glared at them, putting up a fuss when they try to urge her between particularly dense areas.

“There’s no way a fucking Cyclops could live in this,” Aiden grumbles, breaking their weird silence and pulling a twig out of his hair, pouting.

“ _We_ couldn’t even fucking live in this. How dumb do they think we are?”

The side of Lambert’s mouth twitches up at the sight of Aiden’s pout—for only a second— but Aiden catches it and his pout disappears. He starts chattering away about potential monsters that could live in these conditions, listing out creatures and their weaknesses.

The sick cloud in Lambert’s head pushes back and he focuses on Aiden’s speculations, oddly relieved to hear the Cat’s voice as they continue trudging up the mountain.

\---

They’re only halfway up the mountain before the sun dips low in the sky and Aiden suggests they stop for the evening.

Lambert hurries to collect wood for a fire, determined to be useful after being so quiet all day. Once the fire is started Lambert sits as close as he can to the warm flames and starts sharpening his silver sword, unsure what to say to Aiden.

The rhythmic, soothing “shing” sound of the whetsone on silver calms him enough that he doesn’t notice Aiden at his side until the witcher speaks.

“Let me see the wound on your shoulder,” Aiden demands and Lambert shifts his shoulder away automatically, skin prickly at the commanding tone.

“’S fine,” he mumbles, wiping down his silver sword and sheathing it.

“C’mon, wolf. I just want to make sure it’s healing properly,” Aiden cajoles, voice low and soft.

Lambert’s eyes drop to Aiden’s gloved hand, outstretched and waiting. He looks up.

Aiden’s bright green eyes are quiet and steady— as though he could stand there forever—

Lambert sighs and glances away, turning his shoulder towards Aiden and unhooking the pauldron over his injured arm. He slides his shirt off the one shoulder, exposing the wound to the fire light.

Aiden immediately steps into his space and takes off his glove, touching Lambert’s shoulder with his bare hand.

Lambert takes a slow, deep breath, trying not to think about how vulnerable he is—

Aiden’s confident hands dance along the closed wound, inspecting for inflammation. The White Honey worked perfectly. The wound is scabbed over and already on it’s way to scarring. A broad thumb slides up the side of the wound and Lambert’s skin lights up, stomach swooping like that time he nearly fell of a partition at Kaer Morhen.

Lambert clears his throat, shifting his feet to try and project impatience. But Aiden just wraps a hand around his bicep, squeezing, and tilts his shoulder towards the firelight to get a better look. His heartbeat ramps up and he _blushes_ , knowing Aiden can hear it, but Gods he can’t fucking breathe— all his attention is zeroed in on where Aiden’s _gripping_ him— his thighs tense, ready to jump away or—

“Looks good,” Aiden murmurs, stepping back. His hand drops away from Lambert’s skin and he turns away, walking back to the other side of the fire.

Lambert’s fingers ache as he loosens his death grip on his pauldron, sliding his shirt back over his shoulder and settling the pauldron back into place. The place where Aiden touched him feels lit up with sparks.

“Kinda odd, isn’t it,” Aiden says and Lambert struggles to get a questioning sound out of his constricted throat.

“You have a scar from the very first day we met.”

Lambert snorts, watching Aiden sit back down near the fire and stare into the flames.

 _Compliment him,_ Lambert thinks.

_Fuck._

He swallows hard, throat clicking.

“The White Honey you gave me,” he starts, watching Aiden’s eyes snap up to his.

“Worked better than mine normally does.”

 _What the fuck?_ Lambert immediately wants to stick his face directly into the flames, but Aiden just smiles wide, showing his teeth.

“It’s made with _love_. That’s why it works so well,” Aiden says, tilting his head and winking at Lambert.

Lambert rolls his eyes but keeps a tentative smile on his face, stomach squeezing as Aiden continues to stare at him. Aiden is _still_ being nice to him, even when Lambert didn’t fall into bed with him. It doesn’t make any fucking sense. And Lambert _wants_ him to keep being nice—

Shit. He reaches for his flask, choking down some water.

“How old are you, Lambert?”

Water does down the wrong side of his throat and he chokes, water splashing out of his flask as he flails.

“Why are you asking me that?” Lambert asks, throat tight and scratchy.

“Just curious,” the Cat says, eyes glittering over the fire. He takes a stash of white myrtle out of a bag on his belt, sorting through the greenery. He starts stripping the blossoms from the stems, carefully placing the bright petals back into the bag.

_Should he say?_

“Just turned 36,” he admits, talking to the ground. Aiden’s fingers pause.

“How long have you been on the Path?” Aiden asks, staring down at the delicate flowers in his palm.

“8 years,” Lambert answers, wondering where this line of thinking is going.

Aiden scowls, brows pulling down. Lambert has seen Aiden look upset since they met a couple days ago, but it’s always tempered with a cocky smugness. This is different. He looks genuinely upset and Lambert’s stomach writhes and squirms.

“Why?” Lambert asks, suspicion souring his belly. “How old are you?”

Lambert turns to look at him, and Lambert suddenly feels like he’s being peeled open and observed like an insect.

“52.”

Aiden resumes carefully stripping the stems of their blossoms, brow smoothing out to a carefully neutral expression.

_Oh._

Lambert’s chest burns and he looks away, heat filling his cheeks. Aiden is only 5 years younger than Geralt. Something about the knowledge unleashes a whirlwind of butterflies in his chest. He doesn’t look his age... Maybe it’s a product of being a cat witcher. The knowledge makes him feel unmoored— young and naïve, like his lack of experience is embarrassing.

“You’ve been alone on the path for 8 years?” Aiden asks, voice monotone.

“Yes,” Lambert drags the word out, unsure where the conversation is going.

Aiden doesn’t say anything else, but the dark cloud that swamped Lambert all day seems to have transferred to Aiden. The sight makes Lambert antsy.

“Want me to brush Amber?” he asks, hoping that will smooth out the frown curling Aiden’s lips down.

Aiden crushes one of the white blossoms in his palm, dropping it into the fire.

“No.”

He takes out a small dagger and starts polishing it with more force than is necessary. Lambert presses his hands into his thighs, trying to ground himself.

“I could…go hunt for some food?” Lambert asks, wondering why the fuck he’s asking _permission_ —

Aiden freezes, hands going still on the dagger. His eyes dart up to meet Lambert’s, but he doesn’t say anything— the silence stretching between them like thick molasses.

Lambert’s shoulders string tight and he stands with a scowl, turning to leave the campsite.

“Gonna go hunt for some dinner,” he mumbles, strapping his swords to his back and hurrying away from the campsite.

He ignores Aiden when the witcher calls his name, determined to put space between them so he can think.

He hears the distinct “thwack” of steel lodging in a tree trunk behind him and doesn’t look back. 

Walking through the trees, Lambert feels a sudden wave of mortification flood him and he has to pause and lean against a tree.

_Who is he becoming— placating a stranger like that? It doesn’t matter if Aiden is upset— they don’t even know each other—_

Shame burns at his chest and he stares out into the woods, trying to focus on actually finding some food.

Maybe he can find a rabbit—? This forest is so dense though…

And quiet. It’s _too fucking quiet_ —

A yell tears through the air—

_Aiden?_

Lambert turns back toward their camp—

He hears the whistle of a projectile and searing pain explodes at his shoulder, dropping him to his knees with a grunt.

His fingers slide up— smacking into the thin shaft of an arrow lodged above his shoulderblade. The projectile shifts in his flesh as his fingers bump it and he bites down on a groan.

He looks around and sees nothing—

His heart rate shoots up.

There is only the sound of trees swaying and jostling in the wind, scuttling leaves scraping against each other—

He can’t hear any heartbeat except his own.

He stands and the world tilts.

The trees go fuzzy.

_Poison? Gods damn it that must be some kind of record…twice in three days?_

His thoughts scatter and he falls to his knees again, legs too weak to carry his weight. His bag is too far away— he’ll never make it back. He hears the frantic clash of swords, far off and muffled by the woods. Amber screams— her animal shriek echoing through the forest. Several heavy boots walk into Lambert’s fading line of sight, but his arms won’t reach for his swords.

Sound disappears and his vision goes black.


	5. Trapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert ends up in a dire situation, and Aiden is no where to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to get a lot worse for Lambert before they get better.
> 
> No Aiden in this chapter, but he'll be back soon! :)

His head pounds— throbbing pain stabbing at his temples as he claws his way back to consciousness.

The first thing he becomes aware of is scent: crisp redwood leaves, damp earth, and the sweat of a tired horse. Sounds filter into his awareness next— the steady clop of horse hooves on dirt, the creak and wobble of wood, and voices—harried and low.

“This is fucking dangerous! I told you the dosage was too low—“ a reedy voice hisses.

“We can’t risk any more. Don’t want to damage the goods,” another voice chimes in, deep and rumbling like stones grinding together.

“This better be worth it, Kylian—“ the reedy voice warns.

“It will be,” the low voice— Kylian— murmurs. His voice is alarmingly calm next to the other guy’s high-strung vocal chords, and something about it immediately sets Lambert’s senses on edge.

He keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to alert his captors that he’s awake just yet. Shoving the headache to the back of his mind, he works on cataloguing his environment.

He’s laying on a flat wood surface, but the world rolls and jolts beneath him— he must be laying on a wagon. He’s been stripped of his armor ( _Gods fucking damn it_ ) and there’s a foul tasting cloth gag in his mouth. Thick rope binds his hands behind his back, and his thighs and ankles are similarly bound.

Fuck. Really?

The wagon jolts and he bites down on the gag as sharp pain shoots through his shoulder. Fuck, that’s right— he’d been shot. The arrow’s been removed and his shirt tugs as he shifts, tacky with dried blood.

He tries to remember what happened before he got shot. Amber’s shrill scream, the distant sing of swords clashing—

_Aiden._

_Fuck, what happened to Aiden? Is he injured?_

A horrible weight settles in Lambert’s chest, gaping and sharp.

_Is he alive?_

His whole side throbs as the wagon bounces and he groans in shocked surprise, eyes jolting open. His captor’s argument cuts off.

“Finally awake, huh?” Reedy Voice says, full of bravado.

_Fuck. Was he out all night?_

He stares up at the storm clouds gathering in the sky, thinking fast.

Whatever poison they laced the arrow with is still in his system, though it’s waning— he still feels dizzy, and the world blurs in and out of focus as he blinks up at the passing redwood canopies. His muscles are tired from fighting off whatever they dosed him with, and his lungs feel sluggish when he tries to take a full breath.

He won’t be able to fight them like this, he can’t cast any signs…and he can’t run.

He’s trapped.

His heart rate ramps up and he hears Eskel’s voice echo in his head: _Stay calm. As soon as you panic, your thoughts narrow and you can’t see opportunities as they present themselves._

He takes several slow, deep breaths, then twists to look up towards the front of the wagon. Reedy Voice looks how his voice sounds— tall and stringy looking, in need of a good bath and sickly pale with malnutrition. As soon as Lambert makes eye contact with him the man becomes twitchy, marionette smile faltering and spindly fingers twitching against the wooden wagon seat. He looks _familiar._

“The mage will pay good money for your parts, witcher,” Reedy Voice says, squinty eyes raking over his body. Lambert abruptly feels like a pig headed to slaughter, trussed up and helpless.

He sneers through the gag, watching Reedy Voice look away hastily.

“He doesn’t want the parts, per say,” Kylian rumbles. The hulking figure next to Reedy Voice doesn’t bother to turn around and look at him. “He wants to see how the parts are put together. At least, that’s the rumor.”

“He wants to make more of these mutants?” Reedy asks, disgust curling his crooked lips.

“I think he just wants to understand how they work. How much damage they can take,” Kylian says, glancing back at him over a long, sharp nose. The glance only lasts a second, but the sick hunger in his ice colored eyes has Lambert’s skin crawling.

_Melitele’s tits, what has he stumbled into? Where’s Aiden?_

He lies back, blinking up at the smears of tree and dark clouds. _How could he be so stupid? Vesemir would be so angry with him—_

The cart jolts over some rocks and the world spins, poison rocking through his body. He clenches his teeth, trying not to vomit.

“Be careful!” Reedy Voice yelps.

“This’s our only cart and I’m not carrying him if you break it!”

“I won’t fucking break it, you irritating prick,” Kylian growls back.

The men devolve into arguing— gesticulating wildly and talking over each other.

Lambert twists his wrists hard against the bindings. There’s no give. One of them knew how to tie a knot properly, much to Lambert’s dismay.

He feels his wrists bruising as he twists and turns, trying to create any kind of space in the rope.

“Hey!”

Something hard slams into his side and pain explodes, whiting out his vision as a rib cracks beneath the pressure of the blow. He gags, breath jolting out of him as his shoulders instinctively hunch and fire lights up along the arrow wound.

“Stop squirming!”

Lambert gasps in a jagged breath through the cloth, looking up to find Reedy Voice holding a thick walking stick, ready to jab it into his side again.

There’s a weird fervor in the skinny man’s gaze and Lambert goes still, sucking air in through his nose, waiting for the pain to even out.

“Stop your fucking writhing, freak, or I'll break your legs next!” Reedy Voice demands, turning and flopping back down into his seat to continue his argument with Kylian.

_Fucking ow._

Lambert struggles to breathe steadily, flinching in pain. He stares up at the sky for a long moment, watching the world pass by in a haze, before giving in to the one thing he _can_ do: meditate.

\--- 

He jolts back into consciousness as the wagon shudders to a stop. The sun is low in the sky and thunder rolls, looming overhead.

Shit, how long did he meditate for?

They’ve stopped in the middle of the road. The path looks like it has been carved out of the mountain— just wide enough for one cart to pass through and surrounded on both sides by dense redwoods.

The air is thinner as well— they must be near the peak of the mountain. Where does this road lead to? Who made it?

“Hey! Mage!” Reedy Voice shouts out, his grating voice jarring Lambert’s headache back into existence.

“Shut up you idiot,” Kylian growls, shooing a huge hand at Reedy Voice.

Lambert follows his captor’s gazes. Backed away from the road is a small, windowless wooden house with a single dark door. Prickly shrubs grow everywhere, obscuring the small structure from view. It would pass unnoticed if someone wasn’t looking for it specifically.

“Good evening, mage,” Kylian calls, voice lofty and affected, tossing a smug look at Reedy Voice. “We come bearing your request— one witcher, in exchange for the agreed upon reward.”

_Shit. A mage actually has a reward out for the capture of a witcher? What is going on?_

Lambert glances around, shoving away the lingering pain at his temples, looking for anything— _anything_ — that could get him out of this situation.

Hopelessness slides along his spine, settling in his chest. Gods his shoulder burns. And his meditation did little for that broken rib. At least the blurriness is gone—

The small, dark door creaks open and Lambert flinches. A tall, slender figure steps out into the evening light, but for some reason Lambert can’t look directly at him. His eyes glance off the mage like rain off leaves— the mage's form blurring along at the edge of Lambert’s vision.

“I cannot believe you fools did not blindfold the witcher,” the mage says, voice low and hissing. Hair raises along Lambert’s arms.

Kylian fumbles some non-answer and the mage brushes him off.

“Bring him here,” the mage demands, walking back into the house. Kylian walks around the back of the wagon and grips Lambert’s ankle, meaty hand clamping down hard and dragging him to the edge of the wagon. He growls through the gag, helpless, and his stomach wrings as Kylian throws him over his huge shoulder like a Gods damn sack of potatoes—

He nearly pukes, broken rib screaming and humiliation flooding his chest—

And Kylian carries him into the mage’s house.

The house is nearly empty, with a single table in the center of the room and a bare kitchen off to the left side of the door. The mage walks to the kitchen and flicks a drab brown rug back, revealing a trap door in the floor and ushering them down the steps. The hidden steps lead to a space larger that the entirety of the house above ground. It's damp, lined with stones and lit with torches and candles. Glittering bottles clutter every surface, thick books are packed into every corner, and cabinets of jars filled with mysterious objects line the walls. 

Lambert’s eyes flicker around, trying to take stock of everything—

His heart drops through the earth, acidic terror numbing him.

There’s an empty cage in the corner— vertical bars running from ceiling to floor.

_Gods damn it all._

“Put him in there,” the mage says, gesturing to the cage. He squirms uselessly, animal instinct telling him _he must not be put in there. No, no, no, no—_

His wounds burn as he's dropped down onto the cold stone and the door slams, locking with a resounding _thud_.

He stares, shocked, mind rebelling at the situation—

_This is bad. This is really bad._

Reedy Voice’s cold, beady eyes watch him as Kylian turns to the mage, asking after their reward.

“300 oren, as agreed upon,” the mage says, dropping a hefty coin purse into Kylian’s hand.

300 oren. That’s what he’s worth? He would roll his eyes if he could, but that would aggravate the pain in his head.

“Get out,” the mage dismisses the fools and they scramble for the stairs, thundering up and out the front door, hooting and hollering.

Lambert shifts his shoulders, grimacing at the tacky, drying blood at his shoulder.

They’re alone.

He has no idea what to do. Nothing prepared him for this. He keeps his eyes glued to the hard floor, skin prickling the longer the silence goes on.

The mage drags an empty barrel over to the bars, the wood scraping across the damp stone, and sits facing Lambert. Lambert manages to drag his gaze up and he blinks in surprise. He can see the mage clearly now— whatever magic he had been using to obscure Lambert’s vision is gone.

He’s fairly young, for a mage— maybe in his 60s— with thick black hair braided back off his face and a sharp goatee framing his pointed chin. He’s skeletal; pale skin drawn tight over his sharp cheekbones. His eyes shift with the flickering candlelight between gray blue and murky brown, never settling on a distinct color. There’s a manic gleam behind his gaze and Lambert feels himself pale, darkness flooding him.

“Yes, you’ll do perfectly,” the mage says, voice like knives scraping over silk. His eyes drag along Lambert’s body, unblinking and cold.

“Though I can see those brutes roughed you up a bit,” he frowns, staring at Lambert’s wounded shoulder. “Shame.”

With a smooth wave of one hand, the thick rope binding Lambert snaps apart, flying through the cage bars and coiling into perfect circles on the ground.

He does something else— a more complicated hand movement— and the gag unties behind his head. The rough material slides out of his mouth with a caress and he shivers, swallowing convulsively. The gag floats to the mage’s hands and he snags it out of the air, pinching it between his fingers. He rubs at the fabric where Lambert’s saliva soaked through the material, haunting eyes never leaving Lambert’s face.

Lambert tries to maintain eye contact with the mage— _he mustn't show any weakness_ —

But it’s impossible. The mage is…wrong, somehow. Besides his appearance, his _movements_ are all full of a planned out kind of grace; every gesture choreographed and full of intent— a predator stalking easy prey.

“I’ve been looking for another one of your kind for a while now,” the mage says, eyes picking along Lambert’s features like a nesting bird.

_Another one?_ Lambert’s mind spins. _He’s done this before? What happened to the other witcher?_

“Hello,” the mage says, sharp lips peeling back in a sick grin. “My name is Stehlannin.”

Lambert’s shoulders crawl up, chest caving in.

“We’re going to get to know each other very well,” Stehlannin says, running the gag through his long, pale fingers.

_This is really, really bad._


	6. Fracture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mage starts his experiments.
> 
> Please heed the tags as they've changed!  
> If you want to skip this chapter, I'll put a summary of what happens at the end notes. :)
> 
> And CONTENT WARNING: food and starvation.

The mage had left after their brief introduction the day before— disappearing up the stairs and leaving Lambert in pitch black silence. His mind had run wild at first, frantic for any possibility of escape. He checked every joint in the cell, every stone along the wall— even lifting himself along the sides of the cage to feel at the roof.

Even signs were of no use. Aard sent a shock of pain up his arm and did nothing to the metal around him. He didn’t dare try Igni in the small space, lest he just set himself on fire. Stehlannin must have a decent knowledge about witcher strength and magic to have constructed such a cage.

After what felt like hours he resigned himself to the reality of his situation: he can do nothing but wait for an opportunity to present itself.

Having given up on immediate escape, he settled down to once again fall into his only option: meditation. If nothing else, he could at least keep his mind calm and nudge along the healing of his wounds.

\---

Stehlannin shows up much later— the sunlight from above them hurting Lambert’s eyes after so many hours in the dark. Even the candles that the mage lights send stabbing pain through his retinas for a while until his sight can adjust.

The mage moves around the room, fiddling with his potion bottles and books, glancing at Lambert intermittently. Lambert maintains his meditative kneeling stance, refusing to acknowledge the mage’s presence. _Two can play at this fucking game_ , he thinks viciously.

“I’ve learned much from your predecessor, though he was from a different school,” Stehlannin says at last. Lambert feels Stehlannin’s odd eyes burning into the medallion resting against Lambert’s chest. The necklace feels heavy, as it always has— a glaring proclamation to the world of his status as a monster hunter, as _other_ , as _unwanted_.

“Perhaps there are differences between your kinds based on where you were made,” Stehlannin conjectures, tilting his head and watching Lambert as though he were a particularly interesting species of mouse.

Lambert says nothing.

The mage suddenly appears at bars, moving too quickly for Lambert to see. His skin prickles at the unnatural action and his fingers ache for a sword.

“Won’t you tell me your name, witcher?” Stehlannin asks, voice smooth and cajoling, pristine nails dragging along the unforgiving bars. Lambert’s instincts _scream_ at him to put distance between them and he gives in— standing and leaning against the cold wall, crossing his arms.

Stehlannin gives him one of those creepy smiles, waving a spindly finger at him.

“That’s very rude. Your predecessor also refused to speak at first. He did talk eventually, of course, just as you will. And oh, the things he told me.”

Lambert’s heart pounds at the implication. What the fuck? What did he _do_?

Stehlannin spins away from Lambert, gliding over to a low table in the corner of the room. It’s flooded with the same glittering bottles and worn books as the rest of the room— the table legs splintering under the weight of all the paraphernalia.

“You know, it’s a real shame— I was driven from my previous abode by some very intolerant townspeople, and I had to leave all my precious notes behind,” Stehlnannin mourns, tapping a finger against a plain black book on his desk. It’s thin— the edges of the pages crisp and unused.

_Notes?_

“I tried to recall as much as I could, but it’s best if I just redo the experiments.”

_Experiments?_

He turns to Lambert, eyes boiling with hunger. Horror swells before Lambert—an avalanche that he has no chance of outrunning—

“Wouldn’t you agree, little witcher?”

Lambert’s throat burns as he swallows.

\---

Stehlannin sat at his makeshift desk for hours after that, scribbling away in his book with a sharp quill.

“I’ve had much time to think this through,” his slick voice jars Lambert out of the light meditation he had fallen into. Stehlannin snaps the journal shut and stands, fiddling with several of the small bottles on his desk. Liquid sloshes around inside their little bodies, mysterious and threatening.

“I made a couple mistakes in my last experiment, and it will be good to start fresh. ‘Trim the fat,’ so to speak,” Stehlannin says, glittering eyes watching Lambert’s reaction.

He gives the mage nothing, sliding down the wall to sit.

“That rib has healed nicely, hasn’t it?”

Lambert looks up at the question, keeping his face as blank as possible.

“Don’t give me that stupid look, witcher. You’re moving easier. So that rib has healed.”

He’s right, of course, but there’s no way Lambert’s not going to acknowledge that.

“That was about 24 hours. Very similar to your predecessor. Though that was a broken femur, not a rib.”

Stehlannin glides closer, wheels spinning behind his eyes, and Lambert’s stomach squeezes.

“I wonder…What if that same rib is broken repeatedly?”

What the _fuck?_

The mage holds up a hand and presses two fingers together, pausing. Sharp, white-hot pain splits through his side as the mage snaps— a loud crack echoing in the basement as the same rib re-breaks along the freshly healed fracture line.

He grits his teeth against a shocked grunt, breaking his silence. He reaches back to press against his side instinctively, struggling to keep the grimace off his face.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ He takes slow, steady breathes, leaning into the pain to make it dissipate quicker.

The mage croons at his reaction, giddy fingers dancing along the bars and breathing heavily as Lambert struggles to control his reaction to the pain.

“That’s good. That’s very good,” Stehlannin mumbles, pressing his skeletal face up against the bars, feverish.

“I wonder, little witcher: how quickly do you heal if you are not allowed meditation? Or sleep?”

_What?_ It’s hard to think past the shock of pain and Lambert blinks rapidly, staring down at his boots.

“Let’s find out,” Stehlannin suggests, snuffing out the lights and gliding up out of the basement.

The basement door clicks shut and Lambert is swallowed up by the dark.

\---

Sleep edges close. Blissful, healing sleep…

A loud thud jars him away and he bites his cheek to stop a snarl from escaping. It’s been the same thing for days now (Has it been days? Or weeks?). Any time he gets close to sleep or any kind of meditation a loud, horrible sound will snap him back into consciousness.

His rib does heal, but slowly. He presses a tentative hand against his ribcage, humming at the pain. It was fractured for the third time on Stehlannin’s last visit, and this time he bit his lip so hard it split in his attempt to hide his pain. The mage was just as giddy at the first time he broke Lambert’s rib. The sight of his pleasure makes Lambert sick.

He’s seen the mage 6 times now, and every time the mage has some fresh torture for Lambert. And every time, he needles at Lambert, asking him questions —

_—“How many trials did you undergo? What were they? Did it hurt?"_

_"What is your pain tolerance? What are your fighting techniques?"_

_"Why are your eyes yellow? How far can you see? How far can you hear?"_

_"What about your human parents? Did they give you up to be a monster?—"_

Taunting him—

_“—You can’t be that stupid. You understand the words I speak and you’ve managed to trick humans into thinking you’re not a monster."_

_"You’re doing this to yourself. If you would just obey, then I wouldn’t have to compel you."_

_"If you would just answer my questions, then I wouldn’t have to hurt you—“_

Lambert refuses to speak, no matter what Stehlannin says or does. He knows his fate, and it won't do him any good to comply.

\---

The constant darkness is getting to him. He forgets where he is. There’s no way to tell time. He sees things in the dark, hears whispers in the water dripping down the stone walls, feels invisible hands on his skin—

\---

His stomach aches constantly with lack of food, and the sparse water he’s granted does nothing to fill the void. Hunger twists his stomach, letting out a loud growl. Stehlannin turns sharply at the betraying sound, smirk teasing at his lips.

His spindly hands conjure an apple into existence— gleaming red and green in the candle light.

Lambert’s mouth floods with saliva at the sight.

Stehlannin doesn’t take his blue-brown eyes off Lambert as he drags his barrel seat over to the cage and sits. He takes a large, crisp bite, eyes boring into Lambert as though the mage could consume _him_.

“You’re a wolf witcher,” he says, mouth full. “Which means you must have an abnormal tolerance for cold. Am I wrong?”

Lambert glowers, not giving an inch. The fresh, sugary smell of ripe fruit fills the small space and Lambert’s stomach folds in on itself.

“You wolf breed of witchers winter together, like animals. Where?”

Lambert’s throat constricts. Is that his aim? To find Kaer Morhen?

“Tell me, little witcher. I will find out eventually.”

_No._

Stehlannin takes loud, sharp bite— the fruit’s white flesh dripping juice down the mage’s bony wrist.

“You can save yourself much pain and suffering if you just talk to me.”

_No._

Impatience sparks to life and disappears in an instant, barely alive in Stehlannin’s eyes long enough for Lambert to catch it. The mage pets at his goatee, thinking.

“What if I offered you food? Would you talk to me then?”

Lambert swallows the flood of saliva on his tongue.

_No._

“Hmm. You are more stubborn that your predecessor. That’s unfortunate. It just means my methods must be more…surgical,” Stehlannin says, lips peeling back into a gleeful smile.

Lambert’s mind immediately conjurs a list of potential horrors, nerves clanging in alarm.

_Surgical._

Stehlannin sits there and finishes his apple leisurely, licking the juice from his fingers, then glides to the basement door. He pauses just at the top, feverish eyes glowing in the dark.

“Let’s see how cold you can get before it starts to bother you.”

And the temperature drops— colder than any night in Kaer Morhen.

His breath clouds in front of him and he shifts to the corner of the cell with two solid walls, hissing at the press of freezing stone against his back. He curls up tight, wincing as his broken rib bends and pulls.

He closes his eyes against the pitch dark room and sighs, drifting…

_Bang._

A loud thud snaps his eyes open again.

_Fuck._

\---

It’s too fucking cold. His lips have gone numb, and his fingers are like ice against his sides.

He started to shiver a while ago— relentless tremors sliding along his spine. He hasn’t been this cold in a long time, maybe ever, and a whimper tugs from his throat. There’s no one here to hear his weakness, so what does it matter? And there’s no one looking for him, either.

Aiden isn’t coming for him. The cat witcher is probably dead, and even if he is alive, there’s no reason for him to search for Lambert. Aiden doesn’t owe him anything. It would be suicide anyway— Lambert knows he will die here.

No one will find his body. He’ll just be another witcher who disappeared on the Path.

 _Fuck Vesemir,_ Lambert thinks viciously, heart twisting horribly in his aching chest. He curls his arms tighter around his torso, ignoring the hot pain of his rib.

_Vesemir wouldn’t give a shit anyway. Lambert was always the fuck up. It’d be easier for the old man without Lambert around. But Eskel… Geralt… Gods damn it._

A well-worn memory springs to mind, taunting him. It was a freezing night at Kaer Morhen several years previous— the winter had been especially vicious, and snow had piled so high they couldn’t open the front door for 2 weeks. Eskel and Geralt had dragged a protesting Lambert to Eskel’s huge bed, curling them together to share heat. Knowing how the cold bothered Lambert, Geralt and Eskel had barricaded him in between them and kept him safe, pressing their scents together and breathing the same air.

He remembers it like it was yesterday.

What he wouldn’t do for that comfort one more time…

Burning liquid floods his eyes and he slams them shut.

_Fuck. Get it together. He won’t allow the mage the pleasure of his grief._

He opens his eyes to the darkness around him, tilting his head back and blinking up towards the ceiling to disperse the welling tears.

 _It won’t do any fucking good to be sad about it_ , he tells himself. _He was always going to die in some stupid way anyway._

Light splits the darkness as the basement door opens and Lambert ducks his head, closing his eyes against the light and pressing his forehead to his knees.

A now familiar hopelessness descends on Lambert.

Footsteps descend into the dark.

 _Slow_ footsteps.

That’s not the mage’s footsteps.

He shifts against his corner, frozen limbs stiff and aching with lack of movement. The footsteps pause, then jolt into a run.

He flinches at the smack of a palm against metal.

“Lambert?” someone asks, soft voice quavering.

He curls up tighter, arms wrapping around his knees.

“Lambert,” the voice hisses, urgent and low.

_He won’t respond to this trick. He won’t._

“I’m getting you out of here,” the voice says, and Lambert listens as the person fumbles in the dark, shoving papers and books and bottles around, searching.

“There must be a key…” the person mumbles.

 _This is a trick._ Lambert knows it. He slowly squints his eyes open, letting his eyes adjust to the light.

“Lambert, is there a key?”

The person’s silhouette dodges around the room as though they have no problem seeing in the dark.

Lambert closes his eyes again, dropping his face back to his knees. He shivers, curling his numb fingers into his pants.

The stranger shoves more things around, papers fluttering in the air. A bottle splinters open against the stone floor, liquid burbling along the ground. The stranger makes a triumphant sound, and then there’s the clink of metal against metal— _keys_. Lambert’s heart leaps at the clink of iron in a lock and the door creaks open. _It can’t be real._

Lambert jerks his head up—

_Aiden._

It’s Aiden.

His eyes are black with Cat, black veins spidering along his pale skin.

Barely illuminated by light, Lambert can just make out the hint of his soft looking hair sticking to his sweating skin, his strong jawline, his broad shoulders—

No. It must be a trap.

The illusion kneels in front of Lambert.

“Lambert, can you hear me?”

Lambert stares, unable to focus. What is the mage up to? How did he know about Aiden? Did he know they were working together?

One familiar, broad hand moves to hover between them, bare palm up.

“Lambert, we need to go,” Aiden’s voice whispers, voice full of an artificial calm. His black eyes dart to the basement door, then back to Lambert.

Wind blows through the house above them— a harsh breeze shifting the still basement air— and Lambert smells rosemary.

_Oh._

Lambert blinks hard, desperately trying to think. Lambert didn’t tell the mage his name, and this illusion smells of _rosemary._

Lambert reaches out slowly, freezing fingers brushing against the illusion’s open palm. He’s warm, and solid, and Lambert _knows_ those hands.

_Aiden._

“Aiden,” he whispers, voice strangled with disuse.

“Yeah. It’s me, wolf,” Aiden says. Aiden keeps his palm open, letting Lambert press their palms together, soaking up his warmth.

The next thing he knows he’s pressed against Aiden’s chest, face hidden in the Cat’s neck, and Gods he’s _alive_ , and he’s _real_ , and he’s _here_ —

Aiden’s arms wrap around his shoulders, squeezing him close and enveloping him in his warm scent. Lambert’s throat closes.

“C’mon, wolf. We have to get out of here. He could come back—“

Lambert growls, exhaustion heavy in his limbs. Can’t he just stay here? This is a nice enough place to succumb to the cold.

“I know, pup, but we’ve got to _go_ ,” Aiden insists, dragging Lambert to his feet. “Gods, you’re freezing—“

As soon as he’s on his feet the world sways horribly— like being on the ocean— and Lambert gags on nothing, clenching his teeth. His broken rib screams at the motion and he whines.

“Easy," Aiden soothes, one strong hand wrapping around Lambert's waist and pulling him against Aiden's side.

"I’ve got you. Come with me, pup—“

And Aiden practically carries him through the basement. They stumble up the rotting stirs and Lambert flinches at the too-bright light, sucking in a sharp breath and slamming his eyes closed.

“Shit,” Aiden mumbles, pressing a warm palm across Lambert’s eyes.

“Keep your eyes closed. I’ll guide you.”

He should panic with a warm weight over his eyes, blocking his vision, but he ignores his thundering heart and focuses on the cat witcher's warm scent. Aiden move him easily through the mage’s house—wood floor echoing beneath their feet as they stumble to the door and out into the sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary for those who wish to skip the toture:  
> The mage, Stehlannin, tortures Lambert. Lambert isn't sure what the mage is after, but Stehlannin asks him a bunch of questions about his abilities as a witcher and Lambert begins to suspect the mage wants to know where Kaer Morhen is located.  
> Aiden shows up at the end of the chapter and drags him out of the mage's house.


	7. Igni

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aiden takes care of Lambert after their daring escape.

The air is sweet— too clean and crisp after breathing in the damp air of the mage’s basement for so long. The sun against his skin _burns_ —

He clutches at Aiden’s vest— sturdy and familiar beneath his freezing hands. Aiden shifts his grip, keeping one palm over Lambert’s eyes and sliding his other hand up Lambert’s waist to grip under his arm.

Pain spears through his chest and he lets out an strangled grunt. Aiden’s hand drops back to his waist as though caught on fire.

“Shit. What happened? What’s wrong?” Aiden asks, still whispering. His chest heaves with frantic breath beneath Lambert’s palms.

“Rib,” Lambert growls, voice scraping with disuse. He grimaces, knees wobbly as they stagger farther away from the house.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll take care of it soon,” Aiden promises and Lambert stumbles over something hard— a rock?— and lands on his knees in soft earth, the scent of dirt blooming up where he’s disturbed the ground.

He’s never been so happy to smell the warmth of earth.

Aiden keeps one hand over Lambert’s eyes, gripping the back of his shirt with the other to keep him upright.

“Amber,” Aiden calls for his horse, voice hushed and urgent.

The sun seeps into his icy skin and his heart settles, relaxing in the warmth. Exhaustion bows Lambert’s shoulders and he braces a hand on the ground.

“Oh, no you don’t, pup,” Aiden growls at Lambert, the hand at his back sliding up to grip the nape of his neck. Something about the gesture makes tension drop from Lambert’s shoulders and he sighs. He’s too tired to worry anymore—

“Amber, come here, girl,” Aiden whispers, urgent.

Lambert tilts his head at the sound of soft hooves, trotting swiftly to Aiden’s side. The cat witcher shifts his grip to Lambert’s waist and pulls him back to his feet.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Aiden demands, lifting his palm away.

Lambert squeezes his eyes shut when the darkness of Aiden’s palm gives way to the pink of his eyelids— too thin to completely filter out the sun—

“I have to guide Amber,” Aiden says, fumbling with something on Amber’s saddle.

“This will help,” Aiden says, and a soft, cool cloth wraps around Lambert’s eyes. Aiden ties it behind Lambert’s head, then takes one of Lambert’s hands in his.

“Here,” he mumbles, guiding Lambert’s hand to press against warm, soft fur.

_Amber._

She smells right— like clean horse—

“I heard her scream,” Lambert mumbles, the memory of the animal’s shriek echoing in his head.

“What?” Aiden asks.

“Heard her. Scream,” Lambert says, fingers pressing into her neck.

“She’s uninjured,” Aiden assures him, reaching for Lambert’s knee to give him a leg up.

“Quickly, Lambert,” Aiden says, and the world shifts beneath him as he struggles to pull himself up.

Dizzines floods him as soon as he’s in the saddle and he clamps his thighs around Amber’s bulk. She feels real beneath him. He reaches a trembling hand out, pressing to her neck and feeling the muscle shift under her short, velvety fur. She breathes in deep, full breathes, barrel chest filling and tightening beneath him.

Tears spring to his closed eyes.

He tangles his fingers into her coarse mane, ignoring the trembling in his arms and swallowing convulsively.

Aiden’s warm, strong, _real_ presence fills the saddle behind him, pressing up against Lambert’s back and flooding him in rosemary. He shivers, resisting the urge to press back into the Cat’s bulk.

“Hold on to her. Let me do the work,” Aiden demands, and Amber starts into a trot, swiftly kicking into a canter.

\---

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been fleeing. Time is meaningless and warped, unimportant next to the feeling of cold wind on his face, the rocking motion of Amber’s footfalls beneath him, and the solid press of Aiden against his back. They’re moving steeply downward, and the constant twisting and turning through shrubbery makes Lambert feel sick. He gags several times and flushes, embarrassed by his weakness, but Aiden just halts Amber’s movement until he’s recovered.

\---

Several times his mind leaves him, floating somewhere else, not meditating… just…not present. Every once in a while Aiden mumbles something to him, pressing fingers into his belly, prodding him until Lambert makes some sound to show he’s still conscious.

\---

The air drops from cool to cold—mist creeping under his clothes and making his skin ache. Lambert start shivering excessively, mind dropping back into the basement where it was so unnaturally cold and he couldn’t see _anything_ —

He tries to fumble at the blindfold, suddenly desperate, but Aiden stops him with gentle fingers, promising him that they’ll stop soon and he can take the blindfold off.

His thoughts drift away again.

\---

The sound of a wet, hacking spit drags him back to awareness. Lambert jolts upright from when he’d slumped back against Aiden, flooded with input— they’re travelling on level ground now, Amber’s footfalls clunking on a paved road, and it smells rank; of people, and food, and dirt, and dogs, and—

“Easy,” Aiden’s voice soothes, pressing a palm flat against Lambert’s belly and holding him steady.

“We’re almost to the tavern,” Aiden says over his shoulder.

The spitter mumbles something off to their left and Aiden urges Amber into a tired trot.

The sudden sensory influx is overwhelming and Lambert tangles his fingers tight in Amber’s sweaty mane, cutting off circulation to his fingers and focusing on the pain.

\---

“We’re here,” Aiden whispers, and Amber stumbles to a stop.

The poor horse feels exhausted beneath him— sweating and huffing, skin too hot beneath his fingers.

“I’m going to get down, then I’ll help you,” Aiden says.

The cold air against his back shocks him as Aiden dismounts and tension slides back into his spine. Unmoored, he clenches at Amber’s mane, thigh’s tightening against her sides—

One of Aiden’s palms presses into his thigh, the other reaching up and untangling his fingers from Amber’s mane.

“I’ll guide you,” Aiden says, waiting for Lambert’s consent. The rising tide of anxiety slips back and he nods.

He nearly falls to his knees when his feet slam to the ground, but Aiden’s quick to wrap his arms around Lambert’s waist and hold him up.

With some curt words to the stable boy and very strict directions to take care of Amber, Aiden leads Lambert into a building, guiding him with a quiet voice.

“We’re back in the tavern we stayed in before,” Aiden says. “Four steps in 3…2…1.”

Lambert feels clumsy, stepping blindly up the creaking steps and gripping at Aiden’s vest to avoid throwing his arms out to search blindly for support.

They step into the tavern and he recognizes the smell immediately— old wood and vinegar floor wash, the hum of human bodies shifting around—

“The fuck happened to him?” A coarse voice huffs.

Lambert turns his blind gaze to the voice, hoping he appears intimidating.

“Not your concern,” Aiden says, abrupt and sharp. A coin purse drops against a wood counter, small discs of metal scraping together within the bag.

“One room, two days,” Aiden says.

“Look here, we don’t want any trouble—“ the person at the counter mumbles.

“We don’t want trouble either. Just a room. And food,” Aiden snaps.

_Food._

Lambert’s mouth waters at the thought and he bites his cheek hard, iron bursting across his tongue.

“My coin’s as good as any. We were here a week ago and had no complaints,” Aiden says, readjusting his grip around Lambert’s waist.

He’s so fucking _hungry_.

“Fine,” the innkeeper says, reluctant, and the coin purse scrapes cross the counter.

“But if there’s any trouble at all—“ he warns, bravado shaking his voice.

“You’ll kick us out. I know,” Aiden says, already guiding Lambert towards the staircase across the common room.

\--- 

It takes a long time to get up the stairs to the second floor, and as soon as they’re in their room Aiden sits him down on a bed— _an actual bed with clean sheets and a pillow_ — and Aiden’s presence kneels in front of him.

Warm hands cup his face, thumbs brushing across the thick stubble along his jaw.

“Don’t bite yourself like that,” Aiden chastises quietly. Lambert grimaces. No doubt Aiden could smell the blood in his mouth.

“I’m going to take this blindfold off,” Aiden says, fingers ghosting over the fabric around his eyes. “Keep your eyes closed.”

Lambert nods, squeezing his eyes closed as the cloth falls away.

“Okay, I’m going to light one candle, but that’s it.”

Lambert senses the flame that burst into existence off to his side, but it doesn’t hurt like it did before.

“Can you open your eyes?” Aiden asks.

Lambert nods, swallowing hard. His throat is so dry it hurts.

“Water first,” Aiden mumbles, hands leaving Lambert as he fumbles with something metallic.

Aiden’s hand comes back, cupping under his chin, soft and guiding, and holding him still. A cool glass presses to his lips and tilts, forcing Lambert to open his mouth.

He drinks automatically, just a few small, delicious sips before Aiden takes the glass away.

Lambert can’t help the small growl that escapes.

“I know, wolf. But you’re really dehydrated. We have to go slow so you don’t get sick.”

He _knows_ Aiden is right, but he’s so thirsty—

Aiden’s hand slides down to his throat, petting down the front of his neck, and Lambert swallows reflexively, biting back a whine.

“Okay?” Aiden asks, voice low.

Lambert nods, fighting the desperate urge to press into Aiden’s hands.

“Now,” Aiden puts the glass aside and cups his face again. “Can you open your eyes?”

He suddenly finds that he doesn’t want to. What if this is all a dream? What if he opens his eyes to that fucking mage’s cold, rank basement? What if it’s Stehlannin, using Aiden’s voice and hands and smell—?

“Come on, wolf,” Aiden coaxes, thumbs rubbing below his lashes with a feather light touch. “Let me see those pretty eyes.”

He can’t find the energy to be embarrassed by the praise, letting his eyes crack open just a sliver.

The candlelight burns and he keeps his eyes narrowed. He can’t see anything except brightness and murky shadows—

“Okay, that’s good,” Aiden praises, fingers scratching along Lambert’s stubble. He gives in and leans into Aiden’s touch, lost in the repetitive motion.

“Take your time. Let your eyes adjust.”

It’s several long moments before Lambert manages to focus his eyes. Aiden’s silhouette sharpens and Lambert throat closes. He’s real— not a trick or some hallucination—

Aiden smiles.

Lambert makes some kind of sound, wounded, and reaches up, gripping Aiden’s wrist hard.

“Hey, you’re okay, wolf,” Aiden says, voice smooth and sweet as caramel. Lambert blinks rapidly, heart thudding in his chest.

“It’s really good to see you, pup,” Aiden says, relief thick in his voice. Lambert’s hungry eyes take in every detail of the cat witcher’s face— the dark bags under his bright green eyes, the greasy hair, and the dirt settling into the creases around his eyes. One thing Lambert quickly realized during their short acquaintance is that Aiden stickler about hygiene, so to see him looking so unkempt is…worrying.

But he’s alive, and he’s here, and Lambert feels his adrenaline crashing hard, leaving him shaky and lost.

\---

Aiden slowly lights more candles with Igni, filling the room with warm yellow light and letting Lambert’s eyes adjust at a snail’s pace.

“What’s causing the sensitivity to light?” Aiden asks, intense gaze searching for any sign of physical injury. Lambert shivers and looks away— staring at the ratty rug next to the bed. The fibers have frayed with wear, the red dye faded to a ruddy pink.

“Did he do something to your eyes?” Aiden asks when he doesn’t answer.

“No,” Lambert manages, voice rough with disuse.

“No, it was just…dark.”

Aiden squints at him.

He abruptly remembers what Aiden said downstairs. They were here _last week_ —

“Aiden,” Lambert says, relishing the name on his lips. “How long was I there?”

Aiden licks his lips, eyes darting away from Lambert’s.

_Shit._

“Aiden—“

“8 days,” Aiden snaps, immediately grimacing at himself and standing, walking across the room to lean against the peeling blue wallpaper. He frowns at the floor, running a hand through his dirty hair and letting out a slow breath.

“Shit, Lambert—“

A sharp knock at the door interrupts him and he bites his lips, eyes lighting up with fire as he marches to the door, yanking it open with such force that the hinges creak warningly. Lambert watches the Cat loom in the doorway, stance full of carefully controlled danger.

Scent floods into the room and Lambert’s mouth floods with saliva.

 _Food._ Warm, fresh food, tinged with—

Lambert lets out a tired, huffing laugh at the sharp stench of fear from the waiter.

“Don’t scare the kid too badly, Aiden. He’s just doing his job,” he says, tongue clumsy in his mouth. Gods he hasn’t talked in a _week,_ no wonder it’s so difficult now.

“Hm,” Aiden mumbles, snagging the two bowls of food and slamming the door in the terrified boy’s face.

He brings the bowls over to the bed and Lambert clenches his teeth. Fresh bread, warm brown rice, and thick lentil stew—

“Start with this,” Aiden says, portioning out a small bit of rice into the soup.

“Eat slowly,” Aiden demands. “Or I’ll take it from you and spoon feed you myself.”

Lambert’s heart hitches at the image of Aiden feeding him and he clears his throat, taking the warm bowl from Aiden’s hands.

The soup is delicious— the best thing he’s ever tasted— and he struggles to control himself. But he manages to shove the empty bowl back into Aiden’s hands as soon as he’s done, not trusting himself to be in control at the moment.

Aiden makes him wait for several minutes before doling out another portion.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Lambert asks, glancing up at the Cat from his second cup of stew.

Heat floods his chest at the look on Aiden’s face— intense and soft simultaneously, so blatantly concerned that Lambert looks away, stirring the remnants of his soup with his spoon.

“I’ll eat later,” Aiden says, voice soft.

Lambert grumbles.

“Eat the bread,” he tries to demand, watching carefully as Aiden takes the small roll, picking it apart and eating small pieces at a time. He suspects Aiden hasn’t eaten much in the past several days either.

\---

The Cat insists on helping Lambert wash, and Lambert’s argument that he’s _fine_ _and he can bathe himself, he’s not a fucking child_ — is derailed as he reaches to tug his shirt off and devolves into a coughing fit as his broken rib jars inside him, white hot pain stealing his breath.

Luckily Aiden’s hands are soft and quick— tugging his ruined clothes from him and walking next to him to the tub, not touching his bare skin. The warm water burns against his frozen skin and he hisses, taking much too long to sit in the tub.

It’s a relief to wash the week away— the soap cleansing away the grime and stress sweat from his body, though he can’t quite wash away the feeling of Stehlannin’s burning eyes on his skin—

He stumbles out of the bath too quickly, suddenly sick of the damp and aching to be dry for the first time in 8 _fucking_ days—

Aiden insists on binding his ribs, wrapping his torso loosely with clean bandages, making sure not to wrap too tightly.

As Lambert lays back on the bed, Aiden hands Lambert a small bottle of what Lambert immediately recognizes to be White Raffard’s Decoction. The silvery liquid glitters in the candlelight, promising pain relief and an end to the adrenaline crash jitters.

“Aiden, you can’t keep giving me—“

“Lambert, either you take this or I sit on you and pour it down your throat,” Aiden says, holding the small vial out to him insistently, jostling the shiny liquid in it’s small vial.

“I’d like to see you fucking try, Cat,” Lambert grumbles, but he takes the potion bottle and downs it in one go. His mouth twists at the taste, but he breathes a sigh of relief as the effects loosen the tension from his muscles and dull the pain in his side.

“Sleep,” Aiden says, dragging a rickety wooden chair over to the bed and plopping down as though he’s planning on sitting there all night.

“What’re you doing?” Lambert asks, exhaustion returning full force now that the pain has lessened.

“I’m going to sit here and watch out for you,” Aiden says, intense gaze piercing into him.

_Fuck._

Lambert glances away, rubbing a cold hand over his forehead.

“Aiden—“

“You won’t change my mind, wolf,” Aiden says, voice plaintive and _tired_. “Just go to sleep."

\---

He tries. He really does. It’s just that every time he gets close to sleep his mind springs back to awareness. The fifth time it happens Aiden asks him what’s wrong.

He debates not answering, but after everything Aiden’s done he figures he owes the Cat whatever he wants.

“The mage,” he starts, staring up at the old tavern ceiling— patched sporadically and splintering along the edges of the beams.

“He did something. I don’t know what. But whenever I tried to sleep or meditate…I couldn’t. I would just…suddenly be awake again. I can’t seem to—“

Lambert’s throat closes and he blinks up at the roof, clenching his jaw hard.

Aiden is silent for a long moment, then his hand sneaks out and he tangles their fingers together, loosely, giving Lambert the choice to pulls away—

For the first time in 8 days Lambert feels _safe_ and he tangles their fingers further, squeezing back.

Aiden smiles at him— a small, honest smile—

“Try again,” Aiden suggests, keeping their hands linked and leaning back in his chair, blinking slowly at Lambert.

After long moments his eyelids droop and the world gets fuzzy.

“Aiden,” he slurs.

“Hmm?” the Cat asks.

“Thank you.”


	8. Compliment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aiden and Lambert tell their sides of the story, and the boys work on figuring out what happened.

Lambert wakes to lilting songbirds and distant human chatter. Warmth filters through the bedside window and he stretches, pressing his arms up above his head and arching his back—

His broken rib screams and he jolts upright, sweat breaking out across his brow and muscles locking up as he struggles to remember where he is.

The first thing he thinks is: he can _see_.

Misty gray sunlight streams through the window, lighting up the small room’s corners and casting long beams of light across the ancient wood floor. Aiden’s things rest against the room’s second bed, pressed up against the wall opposite Lambert. There’s a small vanity opposite the door, smooth with age and use. The chair Aiden had sat in last night is empty, propped right next to Lambert’s bed.

He tangles his fingers in the thin bedsheet, trying to ground himself in the moment. The thin mattress is warm from his body and he’s immediately tempted to curl up under the thin sheets again and succumb to unconsciousness. Gods— the simple comfort of _sunlight_ and a _bed_.

He almost can’t believe it’s real.

The door swings open and Lambert’s calm evaporates. He leaps up, searching for a weapon—

But it’s just Aiden, walking into the room with a platter full of foodstuffs. He smiles, gracefully pretending not to see Lambert’s panic, and places the platter on top of the dresser.

“I brought breakfast,” Aiden says. “I got things that would be easy on your stomach: apples, berries, bread, some nuts, and warm oatmeal.”

Lambert’s mouth waters.

“Sit down and I’ll get you some of everything,” Aiden says, turning away from Lambert and separating the food into bowls.

He abruptly realizes he hasn’t breathed since Aiden walked into the room and he sucks in a deep breath, ignoring the dizzy sway of the room as he drops back down to the mattress.

Aiden plops back down on the chair by Lambert’s bed, handing him a bowl of food and digging into his own with relish. Lambert watches him tear into the bread, white teeth glimmering.

Did he stay there all night? He must have bathed recently because he smells of clean soap and fresh clothes. His dark hair hangs damp against his forehead, sunlight reflecting reddish sepia tones in the strands— glittering as he moves. The dark bags under his bright eyes are still there, but less, so he must have gotten at least a little sleep last night.

Lambert glances away, suddenly full of a strange yearning.

“What time ‘s it?” he asks, glancing out the window.

“Mid-morning,” Aiden says, pressing a mug of water into his hands and watching him with hawk eyes. “Eat.”

Lambert drinks slowly, then reaches for a pieces of bread and hesitates for a second, eyes inexplicably darting to Aiden’s before he snags a thick slice and takes a large bite. He groans in pleasure, relishing the thick crust and soft inside, mouth flooding with saliva.

Aiden lets out a huff, shoving apple into his mouth and turning away quickly.

The food is perfect, and it settles his stomach quickly, but he knows he’ll soon be ravenous again. Lambert has been starved before and he knows how the next several days will go— he’ll alternate between famished and not hungry at all. It’ll be difficult to regulate himself and get back to a normal eating pattern…

That is, if he can find the coin to pay for food. His stomach folds in on itself and he stares at the small vibrant blueberries in his breakfast bowl. Fuck.

He can’t keep letting Aiden buy him things.

Lambert thinks back to the previous night with a clearer head and flush creeps up his chest. Did he really fall asleep _holding Aiden’s hand_?

Vesemir would be furious if he knew. That kind of trust…that kind of weakness…it has no place on the Path. And he just trusted Aiden’s potions _again_ , taking the White Raffard’s Decoction without thinking. Vesemir would tear him apart…

His skin crawls, mind conjuring up Vesemir’s disappoint face—

“How do you feel?” Aiden asks, interrupting Lambert’s meltdown. The Cat grabs another slice of bread and leans back in his chair, faking nonchalance.

Lambert wants to brush it off and say he’s fine. It doesn’t fucking matter; he’s alive, and he’ll push on like he always has.

But Lambert owes the Cat his life, he can at least give Aiden an honest answer. He hesitates, eating the last of the blueberries in his bowl to give him time to think.

“Better,” he settles on, not really sure what to say.

Slit pupils pierce into him, skeptical, searching, and Lambert panics.

“Have a headache. Ribcage hurts a bit. Nothing that will slow me down,” he says, avoiding the Cat’s eyes.

“Hmm,” Aiden acknowledges, letting silence swell between them.

“The White Raffard’s Decoction worked really well,” Lambert says, fingers digging into the empty bowl, nails finding the grooves of the wood and pressing.

Pride flickers in Aiden’s gaze and Lambert watches him fail to suppress a smug smile.

“Oh, shut up, you arrogant bastard,” Lambert says, throwing a thin pillow at the Cat and smiling as Aiden cackles and dodges the projectile.

Aiden beams at him, gaze unfaltering, as though he could sit there and stare at Lambert for hours. Lambert’s skin flushes with the attention and he ducks his head, reaching to press a hand into his shoulder as though he’s checking the arrow injury.

“Does it hurt?” Aiden asks, voice dropping low.

“No. No, it’s fine,” Lambert says, trying to will away the rising blush.

“What happened?” He asks, desperate to get the attention off of himself.

Aiden grimaces, crossing his arms as a storm settles across his brow. He’s silent for a long time, and just when Lambert decides he’s not going to answer, the Cat blows out a long breath of air and frowns.

“I…I’m sorry about what happened at the camp.”

Lambert blinks dumbly. What is he talking about?

“What—?” Lambert asks.

“I got mad and you left camp.”

Oh. Lambert’s chest tightens. Oh yeah, he had forgotten about that. Aiden’s anger. For some weird reason it had felt horrible to have the other witcher’s rage aimed at him… and then Lambert had fumbled stupidly trying to make the anger go away and he’s such a _fool_ —

“Don’t do that, Lambert,” Aiden implores, voice quiet between them. “Don’t go off in your head. It was my fault you left in the first place.”

How easily the Cat can read him. Is he so obvious to everyone else as well? Is he that terrible at hiding his emotions?

“I don’t see how—“ Lambert starts, but Aiden’s quick to cut him off.

“I was angry because I had forgotten that different Schools have different methods.”

What?

“Look,” Aiden sighs, running a hand along his jaw. “Cat witchers frequently stick together. The first 10 years on the path are spent in pairs or small groups, always. No matter what. It’s for protection and to build up confidence and mental strength. And for experience.”

“I have plenty of experience—“ Lambert snaps, defensive walls ratcheting up in his chest as the barb hits home—

“I _know_ , wolf,” Aiden cuts him off. “I know. You’re tougher than nails, surviving on your own.”

It should feel condescending, but Aiden’s gaze looks so sincere—

“It’s just…I didn’t know the Wolf School did it differently, and it makes me sad to think of witchers out on the Path alone.”

There’s something Aiden isn’t saying. It lingers, amorphous behind Aiden’s gaze.

“And when those bandits attacked and I couldn’t find you—“ Aiden cuts himself off, running a hand along his smooth jaw.

“I just don’t like the idea of you thinking I was angry with you.”

Lambert feels a swell of relief— tension he didn’t know he was holding dissipating. He nods awkwardly and the lines in Aiden’s forehead smooth out a bit.

“When you left several bandits attacked. I killed them all,” he says _, easy_ , as though it doesn’t _matter_ —

 _Fuck._ Lambert is abruptly reminded that they are very, very different people _—_

“And then I went searching for you. I found your blood on the ground in a clearing and followed your scent all the way to the mountain peak. And then the trail disappeared. _You_ disappeared—“

The chair shrieks against the floor as Aiden stands and starts pacing back and forth by the bed.

“I looked everywhere. There was nothing. It was just…forest, and dirt, and _nothing_.”

Lambert swallows, watching the fire behind Aiden’s eyes simmer.

“For _three days_ I watched that spot, waiting. I knew you were there somewhere—“

Lambert’s chest hurts. All that time he was below ground, resigned to death, and Aiden was only several feet above him and searching frantically. _Why would the Cat do that?_

“At the end of the third day I saw a tall, skinny bastard appear from out of fucking nowhere, and suddenly I could see his house! It was just there one moment and gone the next!” Aiden says, voice feverish. “I figured he must be a mage to be able to control such a powerful glamour. As soon as the mage stepped away from the house it disappeared from my gaze again. I knew I’d have to time it perfectly.

“He didn’t show up at all on the fourth day, and on the fifth day he was too alert, and I knew I couldn’t follow him in. I would have to enter the house at the same time that he exited.”

Aiden’s pacing grows quicker and Lambert scoots back to brace himself against the wall.

“I got lucky,” Aiden says, stopping in front of him. He looks almost angry with himself. “I just got _lucky_ when I found you. There were two days of nothing and I was a bout to start tearing the area apart when my chance arrived. The mage appeared from his house, distracted— absorbed in some notebook—“

Lambert’s throat closes. It must have been the notebook with all of Stehlannin’s notes on his _experiments_ …all of his notes on _Lambert_. His skin crawls, suddenly freezing—

“—and I managed to slip in the front door as he left— right behind his back,” Aiden says, eyes wild and triumphant.

Fuck. Lambert can see it in his mind’s eye— Aiden’s predatory form lingering in the forest and sneaking past the mage’s back like a shadow.

“You know the rest,” Aiden says, the frantic energy behind his eyes dimming as exhaustion settles into his broad shoulders. He drops back into his chair, blinking innocently at Lambert.

Lambert is dumbstruck. Why would Aiden spend so much time waiting…why would he risk himself like that for Lambert? He’s not fucking _worth it_.

“What happened, Lambert?” Aiden asks, mouth pulled into a taut line.

Gods damn it.

 _I owe him_ , Lambert reminds himself. His throat clicks as he swallows and he drags himself to the edge of the bed, frowning at the sharp tug of pain in his broken rib. Will it heal properly? It was broken so many times…

Placing his feet flat on the floor to ground himself, he tilts his chin up and stares out the window, smoothing his face out to avoid betraying any emotion.

“I was shot in the shoulder. Poisoned again,” he says, embarrassed.

“Two bandits picked me up and took me to the top of the mountain. They said there was a mage who was looking for a witcher to experiment on. They said he wanted to know _how we work_.”

It _hurts_ to talk about this, and he can feel his mind slipping away— desperate to avoid remembering…

He glances at Aiden to find the Cat watching him patiently— unhurried and nonjudgmental, and it gives Lambert the strength to push past the rising fog in his mind.

Lambert tells him about the exchange of money with the bandits (300 _fucking_ oren), and he tells Aiden what he can remember of the mage; his name, height, hair, eyes, build, the sound of his voice…

He has to pause and blink, shaking his head to dispel the image of the mage. It’s as though Stehlannin is in the room with them, summoned just by his description…

“Go on,” Aiden encourages quietly. He hands Lambert a mug of water and Lambert takes a long moment to drink, trying to steady his heart rate.

He tells Aiden about the constant re-breaking of his rib, and the burning cold, and the gnawing hunger, and the impenetrable darkness. He doesn’t say anything about his mental state while was there— just the _facts_ , but judging by the sharp look in Aiden’s eyes the cat witcher can see right through him.

When he gets to the point where Aiden found him he breaks off, awkward and self-conscious. How _embarrassing_ — how he’d pressed up against Aiden for support—

“Thank you,” Lambert says again, ashamed of his own inadequacies. He should never have gotten himself caught.

Aiden quirks a perfectly groomed brow at him.

“For…finding me. I owe you,” Lambert says, hating it so fucking much—

Aiden slips into his space, kneeling on the floor next to the bed and gripping Lambert’s uninjured shoulder firmly. He struggles not to flinch away from the touch, feeling torn open and exposed after telling Aiden what happened—

“You don’t owe me shit, wolf,” Aiden snarls, eyes burning.

“You don’t owe me anything. Okay?” Aiden asks, voice so insistent that Lambert finds himself nodding.

“Tell me you understand,” Aiden demands, shaking Lambert’s shoulder softly. His strong fingers burn through Lambert’s sleep shirt and he abruptly feels like a chastised child, remembering Eskel’s lectures about watching out for himself and _not throwing himself into danger—_

“I understand,” Lambert murmurs, even though he fucking doesn’t understand at all. But Aiden sighs, brow smoothing out, and he smiles up at Lambert, pleased.

“Good,” Aiden says. His hand lingers on Lambert’s shoulder, thumb rubbing rhythmically against the fabric over Lambert’s deltoid. That odd yearning feeling floods his chest and Lambert clears his throat, ducking his gaze away from Aiden’s.

The Cat lets go, standing up and stepping away.

“Alright. You feel up to doing some stuff today?” Aiden asks, sharp eyes demanding honesty.

“Yes,” Lambert says, eager to _do_ something. It’s oddly relieving to have Aiden know what happened, even if Lambert did sanitize it a bit, and now that it’s out in the open he feels jumpy, like he needs to get _out_.

“If you’re up for it, I think we owe Sidac another visit,” Aiden says, and Lambert nods automatically, moving to stand.

The world tilts off balance and he wobbles, blinking rapidly.

“Slowly,” Aiden chastises, ducking into Lambert’s space and gripping his forearm to hold him steady. “Maybe you should stay in bed for another day—“

“No,” Lambert snaps, then grimaces. “No, I need to…”

His mind stalls. What does he need? He glances at Aiden and his heart starts ramping up, pounding in his chest and his ribs hurt—

“I just need to do something,” Lambert fumbles, shaken, and Aiden nods.

“Well then, let’s go see what Sidac Grur has to say for himself,” Aiden says, turning and heading to the spare bed to grab his vest and leather vambraces.

“My armor—“ Lambert starts, grimacing. Shit, he has no money, no horse, no armor, no swords—

His throat burns, horror flooding him. He’s completely fucking screwed—

“Here,” Aiden says, pulling open the nondescript wooden dresser at the base of the spare bed.

Air rushes from Lambert’s lungs, the panic washing away as quickly as it arrived.

“I found it where you were picked up by those bandits. Idiots had no idea what they were throwing away. I just strapped it to Amber,” Aiden says, as though it’s nothing—

His gear is all there— his armor, his bag with all his potions, his swords—

And it’s clean, like Aiden had polished everything—

Lambert bites his tongue, suddenly wanting very much to reach out and _touch_ Aiden. What the fuck?

“It seems I’ll never stop thanking you,” he tries to grumble, but it just comes out airy and soft.

“Don’t mention it,” Aiden says, and he must sense Lambert’s tremulous mood, because he turns away, strapping on his own gear and giving Lambert some semblance of privacy.

\---

Lambert never wants to see Sidac’s run down house again. He hates it, and he hates this fucking town, and he hates all the people here—

He stands outside Sidac’s splintering gate, glaring at the shitty little home and feeling his nails bite into his palm.

“Gonna set it on fire with your eyes?” Aiden asks, bumping their shoulders together, voice light. Lambert fights not to lean into the touch.

He rolls his eyes and sighs, opening the gate.

A flash of red blurs in his periphery and he freezes.

“What?” Aiden asks, voice low.

“Movement— along the side of the house,” Lambert murmurs. He takes a slow, deep breath and is flooded with the scent of human sweat and rampant hormones blanketed in a thick layer of sour fear.

It’s that boy that lives with Sidac— the abused child who shook and shivered in the other room as Aiden laid out their plan to capture the “monster” in the mountains. _How easily they were fooled_ , Lambert thinks bitterly.

He glances at Aiden and holds a hand up, telling him to wait here. A muscle in Aiden’s jaw tics but he nods, leaning up against the fence. He’ll be able to hear anything they say anyway, even from out here on the road.

Lambert walks up the pathway to the house and pads silently along the porch, pausing just by the edge of house. He can hear the kid’s heart pounding away, rabbit quick. Peering around the corner, he finds the boy hunched over behind a rain barrel, curled up tight and shaking with his arms over his head.

“Hello,” Lambert says. The boy squeaks, skinny limbs trembling.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk,” Lambert says, trying to make his voice calm and even.

The boy peers up at him from between his dirty fingers, bright eyes watery and wide. Recognition and shock burn in his eyes.

“You were supposed to be with the sorcerer,” the boy whispers. Lambert bites his cheek hard, shoulders locking up.

“I got away,” Lambert says. “How do you know about that?”

The boy says nothing, lips trembling and pupils constricted to pinpricks.

Lambert kneels near the boy, giving him a clear space to bolt along the side of the house if he wants. There’s something achingly familiar in this kid’s terror, and Lambert stops his thoughts before they trip into dangerous territory.

How does he get anything out of this kid, though? He remembers Eskel telling him to compliment people when he’s looking for answers. “When you say something nice to someone, they become more willing to engage with you,” Eskel had said. Well, Lambert might as well try it…

“I can tell that Sidac mistreats you,” Lambert murmurs, trying to project calm the way Eskel does. “And I’m sorry for it. He’s a despicable man who takes advantage of others. But I don’t think you’re like him.”

“I’m not!” the kid barks out, small hands pulling away from his face and curling into fists, rebelling vehemently at the thought of being like his abuser. _You and me both, kid_ , Lambert thinks.

“I know,” Lambert says, smiling softly. “You’re strong to survive his mistreatment.” The words feel clunky and weird on his tongue, but the kid’s heart is calming to a more normal rate, so he must be doing something right.

The boy looks up at him, dark eyes flittering over him as though trying to peer through him. Whatever he sees must reassure him, because his fists relax and he stands up slowly, leaning against the wall and brushing off his dirty pants. Lambert stands with him, waiting.

“It was S-sidac,” the boy says, tilting his round chin up, full of bravado. “He had an agreement with some of the bandits who live in the mountains. There was a reward and they planned to split the coin.”

“What do you know of their agreement?” Lambert asks.

“They…they saw you when you were here to kill the wyvern. And then you left and the bandits said there was a mage at the top of the mountain who would pay a lot for a witcher. They put out a contract for a monster, hoping to draw a witcher to the town.”

Lambert waits patiently as the boy thinks. If he moves the kid could lose his nerve.

“Sidac wasn’t happy when _two_ witchers showed up,” the boy says. “It was supposed to be one. ‘Easier to overpower one mutant,’ they said.”

Lambert grits his teeth and takes a slow breath.

“What do you know about these bandits?” Lambert asks.

“They live in the mountains. I don’t know how many of them there are, but small groups of them come into town sometimes to trade.”

“The people here are willing to trade with thieves?” Lambert asks, skeptical.

“They don’t steal from the town! They steal from travelers,” the boy says, as thought that makes it better. “And many people here refuse to trade with them anyway.”

There isn’t much else the boy can tell him, but Lambert makes sure to thank him honestly. He’s been brave to tell Lambert the truth, and Lambert won’t forget that.

\--- 

“What do you think?” Lambert asks Aiden as they step back onto the road.

Aiden’s gaze is pinned to Lambert, and he seems…impressed. There’s a delicate tilt to his soft lips that makes Lambert squirm.

“What?” Lambert asks, rolling his shoulders back.

“You’re good at talking to kids,” Aiden says.

Lambert frowns, unsure what to do with the compliment.

“He’s telling the truth,” Aiden says, releasing Lambert from having to respond.

“Let’s wait for Sidac to show up. I’m sure I can get him to tell us more about these bandits,” Aiden says. “And I’m _very curious_ to hear what he has to say about the mage.”

Fuck.

\---

Aiden leads them around the back of Sidac’s house, picking the lock to the back door and letting them in.

“We may as well wait inside where it’s warm,” Aiden says with a wink, gesturing Lambert in ahead of him. Lambert steps into the house, tossing a smirk back at Aiden.

“What a gentleman,” he teases, stomach leaping as Aiden laughs in delight.

When was the last time he smiled? Gods he’s a maudlin bastard. He should try harder…

\---

They talk quietly while they wait, exchanging hunting stories— contracts gone wrong, contracts gone right, the wild people they’ve met, and all the places they’ve been. It’s easy to talk with Aiden; there aren’t any awkward pauses or disagreements, and Aiden is open and honest in a way that makes Lambert _want_ to talk to him. He would normally balk at the thought, but Aiden already knows so much about him, and the Cat saved him when others would have given him up for dead…

 _Maybe_... Lambert thinks, _maybe Aiden is safe?_

It’s a dangerous thought, but it makes Lambert’s stomach swoop with something other than fear.

\---

The sun sets as they talk, casting a bright orange glow into the house. Lambert is about to suggest they give up for the day when they hear slow, shuffling footsteps coming up the path.

Aiden leaps up, pressing himself up by the front door and Lambert retreats to the shadows, disappearing into the dark.

The door creaks open and Sidac’s grumbling voice breaks the silence.

“Fucking stupid. Shoulda broke his fucking teeth, the rat bastard…” the man mumbles, mopping at his sweaty forehead with an old rag. He drops his moth-eaten coat to the floor—

Aiden moves fast— slamming the door and grabbing Sidac by the throat. He lifts the short man clear of the floor, pinning him up against the wall and snarling in his face.

“Hello, Sidac Grur,” Aiden growls, lips pulled back in a sick smile.

Lambert’s frozen, shocked. Aiden’s violent rage is overwhelming, so completely different than he was moments ago when he was smiling at Lambert and laughing about fucked up contracts—

The small man gurgles against the wall, face turning red as he claws uselessly at Aiden’s hand.

“I’m gonna let you down,” Aiden hisses. “If you scream, I will break your neck. Do you understand?”

Sidac nods as best he can, eyes bulging, flailing in Aiden’s grasp.

Aiden drops him and the man crumples to the ground at Aiden’s feet, heaving in gasping breaths and touching his throat with trembling hands. Lambert shakes his head, shoving the shock away.

“Now, Sidac,” Aiden says, looming. “I think we have some things to discuss, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lambert steps out of the shadows and moves to stand by Aiden’s shoulder. Sidac’s beady eyes track to him and the man groans in horrified recognition, covering his face with his swollen hands.


	9. calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert and Aiden get a few answers and more questions out of Sidac.  
> And Lambert needs a little bit of stress relief.
> 
> Please heed the rating change! Chapter warning in end notes

Sidac folds like a stack of gwent cards in the face of the two angry witchers. Aiden grips the back of his musty old tunic and drags him to the table, shoving him down into a chair. The Cat pauses— a conflicted furrow between his brows— before walking around the table to glare down at Sidac.

Lambert shoots him a questioning look.

“I need the table between us or I’ll slit his throat,” Aiden says nonchalantly, just loud enough for Lambert to hear.

Lambert clenches his jaw and grabs the chair across from Sidac. Needing a barricade between himself and the man who condemned him to torture, he twists the chair around and straddles it, bracing his arms on the seat back. Sidac stares at him as though he’s a ghost, dark eyes wide and shifty.

“Alright, Sidac Grur,” Aiden says, crossing his arms. “Spill.”

“You really cannot blame me...” Sidac mumbles, stubby fingers tapping anxiously against the table. “With the state of the continent—“

“Not interested,” Aiden snaps. “You’ve deceived us multiple times and my patience is thin. Tell us about your contract with the bandits in the mountains.”

Sidac swallows hard, breathing heavy, and blurts it all out in a rush:

“It was only after you left—“ he tilts his chin at Lambert. “After that wyvern business— that I ran into some bandits in town. They were asking around about you, see? Wanted to know where you were. I found that kinda odd. We had gotten rid of the wyvern and I hadn’t heard anything about another monster.

So I bought them a couple drinks and weaseled it out of them. They’d had contact with that reclusive, good-for-nothing mage up on the mountaintop. Said they’d be paid handsomely for the capture and delivery of a live witcher to the mage’s house.”

Lambert’s skin crawls. _Live witcher_ …as though he’s a rare species to be collected and traded…

“Well, I’m a business man,” Sidac blusters, wringing his hands together. “I know a good deal when I see one. So I made my own proposition. Said I’d post a notice for a witcher, claiming there was a monster that needed taking care of. They bit— thought it was a really clever idea. And I agreed to do it so long as they gave me a portion of the reward.”

Aiden steps closer to the table, thigh brushing against Lambert’s shoulder. He realizes he hasn’t taken a breath since Sidac started speaking and forces his lungs to drag in cold air.

“You can’t be upset with me,” Sidac whines, voice climbing high. His beady eyes dart frantically between them.

“You’ve seen what it’s like here! The war has ravaged the town— we have nothing! Nothing! I saw an opportunity for some coin and took it—“

“When did the mage show up in the mountains?” Aiden asks, cutting off Sidac’s tirade.

“Don’t know….maybe half a year ago,” Sidac scratches at the back of his neck. “First time he came into town was around then. He only shows up once every couple of months…”

“Do you know where the bandits camp out?” Lambert asks, voice flat.

Sidac’s breathing has gone shallow and sweat shines across his forehead in the low evening light.

“I can’t tell you that! They’ll kill me—“ he mumbles.

“I’ll kill you if you don’t talk,” Aiden growls, bracing his hands on the table and looming over Sidac’s trembling frame.

“I— I don’t know the exact location anyway—“ Sidac prevaricates.

“Give us a general idea,” Lambert says, losing patience. He hates that this little man managed to get him caught and kidnapped and _tortured—_

“It’s to the northeast of town,” Sidac fumbles over the words. “Kinda halfway up the mountain from Cler Clattif’s property.”

There’s the slick sound of the blade being drawn and Lambert tears his gaze away from the human, looking up to see Aiden holding a sleek silver dagger in his hand, twirling it lazily between his fingers.

“There are at least 15 men there,” Sidac hurries to explain, wild eyes watching the gleam of the blade. “I don’t know— I’ve never been there, I’ve just heard rumors—“

“And how often do they come into town for trade?” Aiden asks, dragging his thumb vertically across the blade, testing its sharpness.

“I don’t know, maybe once every couple weeks,” Sidac says. “They’re wild, hard folk. They don’t like being in town. People aren’t exactly receptive to their sort.”

Sidac loses his mind completely, dark eyes glittering and unblinking. His pupils burn into Lambert, filled with fire.

“What do you expect? You’re monsters yourselves and should be eradicated by your own species, then our problems would go away—“

The air shifts and Aiden leaps over the table easily. The Cat’s fingers tangle in Sidac’s greasy hair, pulling his head back and pressing a blade against his neck.

“Wait!“ Lambert shouts, standing.

Aiden freezes, his glowing eyes darting up to Lambert.

“Lambert—“ he growls.

“We’ll get kicked out of town if you kill him. And we still have some work to do here,” Lambert says, hoping Aiden will get his hint.

“At least let me castrate him,” Aiden growls, eyes gleaming in the evening light. There’s that look again— the one Lambert doesn’t recognize— full of wild rage and sick bloodlust.

Sidac makes a weird squeaking sound at Aiden’s threat, the sour scent of his terror making Lambert wrinkle his nose.

“No. No, Aiden. Let’s go. We got what we came here for,” Lambert says, standing and heading towards the door.

“We didn’t get everything we came here for,” Aiden growls. Sidac quails.

Lambert is about to argue—

“Where’s that reward? The one the bandits promised you?” Aiden asks.

“I didn’t fucking get it,” Sidac spits. “Those gods damn bandits lied! Didn’t give me shit.”

His heartbeat indicates that he’s telling the truth. They can both hear it. Aiden snarls, shoving Sidac away from him and stalking out the door. Lambert moves to follow him and a sudden thought flares up in his mind. He pauses at the doorway, bracing a hand against the molding frame and turning to observe the cowering man one last time.

“If you mistreat that boy under your care again,” Lambert threatens, letting Sidac feel the weight of his gaze. “I’ll let him come back and do whatever he wants to you.”

The sad little man whines and nods, sweat dripping down his temple.

Lambert steps out into the cool night air, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders.

\---

It’s dark now, heavy clouds looming threateningly in the sky, and they walk like shadows down the main road to their tavern. Lambert’s _exhausted_. It’s not like they did anything strenuous, and yet he can feel the weight of the past week bearing down on him. Walking into the familiar common room of their tavern shouldn’t feel so good, and yet tension slide off his shoulders as soon as he steps inside.

They discuss the situation over an evening meal. Lambert feels an intense desire to overeat, but he limits himself to one plate of food— simple things like apple and carrots and grains. And he limits himself to one drink as well, determined not to give in to the pull to drink himself unconscious.

Gods he _hates_ dealing with the aftereffects of hunger. At least it’s warm inside— the large hearth putting out enough heat that Lambert feels comfortable in their tiny corner of the common room. And he feels oddly safe with Aiden here. It’s like having a partner— someone trustworthy and familiar who has his back. It’s _weird_ , and it’s not something Lambert normally associates with anyone except Eskel and Geralt. But despite Vesemir’s training, Aiden has proved himself to be trustworthy…

And it’s clear that they have to deal with Stehlannin, but before they can do that, they need more information.

“I think our best bet is finding the bandits,” Aiden says, taking a large swig from his ale. “They’ll have more information about the mage, and we need everything we can get.”

Aiden’s lips are flushed red with food and drink and Lambert is having a hard time not staring. He swallows and shifts, feeling blood rush south. _Now’s not the fucking time_ , he growls to himself. He needs to focus on this— on taking down that fucking mage, but he doesn’t want to think about it anymore. He wants to forget…

His traitorous eyes rest on Aiden. The Cat looks calm now, leaning back against his chair. His pretty eyes glance over the restaurant’s patrons, smiling softly as though he wasn’t threatening to cut a man’s throat half an hour ago. Aiden has switched between personalities so quickly this evening that Lambert has a hard time keeping up.

It’s like there are two versions of him. There’s the Aiden sitting in front of Lambert right now, who’s calm and flirty and confident. Then there’s the other version of him— violent, lethal, quick to rage and impulsive action. It’s confusing, and Lambert is irritated to find that he’s equally…interested…in both extremes of Aiden’s personality.

 _And yes, it’s clear that Aiden fits into the cat witcher stereotype of being very violent, just as Vesemir warned. But Aiden hasn’t been violent towards him,_ Lambert thinks.

 _That could change_ , Vesemir’s voice warns. _Cat witchers are temperamental and mercurial_. _Don’t trust them._

 _Fuck off,_ Lambert snarls back. He stabs at a few left over farro grains in his bowl, thinking back over the past two weeks.

Aiden’s been nothing but kind to him, and he’s not really getting anything out of it. It’s baffling. He thinks back to their morning conversation— Aiden’s urgent voice telling Lambert that he doesn’t owe Aiden anything.

Well, Aiden might as well get _something_ out of all of this, right? And Aiden’s handsome, so it wouldn’t be a chore on Lambert’s part. And once Aiden realizes he’s not worth it, they can part ways. Hey, at least they would have both gotten laid. Somehow he doesn’t think finding willing partners is really an issue for Aiden, but opportunities for Lambert are few and far between (and usually limited to brothels, and Lambert _hates_ brothels— they smell of fear, and pain, and uncertainty—). And he has never fucked another witcher before… Maybe it would be good? It’s worth a try, anyway.

Mind made up, he spends several quiet moments trying to figure out how to get Aiden into bed. He had seemed receptive before, when he asked Lambert if he had a knot. Gods, how ridiculous. That conversation was only a week ago, but somehow it feels like it took place months ago. Hmm…maybe it wouldn’t be too difficult to get Aiden to fuck him. Lambert drinks the last of his ale, dropping his mug to the splintering old tabletop.

“Wanna fuck?” He asks.

Aiden chokes on his own drink, coughing as he slams his mug down on the table. Lambert keeps his face neutral, hoping that the blush he can feel rising in his chest stays out of his face.

Aiden turns wide eyes to Lambert, blinking at him in surprise. A smirk tugs at Lambert’s lips, pleased that he could surprise the Cat so easily. But as Aiden continues to stare panic starts to filter into Lambert’s awareness.

Did he misread the situation? Fuck. Maybe Aiden has changed his mind—

Lambert swallows and drops the smirk, opening his mouth to give Aiden an out—

The Cat is suddenly in his space— one burning hand dropping to Lambert’s thigh, the other gripping his tunic and pulling him close. Hot breath whispers across his ear.

“I thought you’d never ask, Wolf,” Aiden murmurs, voice heavy and dark with lust. With a sharp nip to Lambert’s jawline the Cat shifts away, standing and heading towards their room. Lambert fumbles to follow him, wrong-footed and clumsy. Shit, he didn’t actually think Aiden would take him up on it—

He tries desperately to keep his eyes above Aiden’s ass as they hurry up the stairs, but it’s difficult and Lambert feels heat building quickly in his gut. It’s been a long time since he’s gotten laid, and after the past week he desperately wants to turn his brain _off—_

\---

The rush to the room is a blur, and as soon as the door is closed they’re tearing their clothes off—

Aiden lights the room’s candles with Igni and Lambert struggles not to complain. He isn’t the biggest fan of being _seen_ , but right now the idea of darkness is too close to Stehlannin’s house and that wrong, unnatural darkness—

No. He’s not thinking about that right now. Lambert gets undressed at record speed, falls back onto the small mattress, and looks up.

Shit, Aiden is gorgeous. He’s broader than Lambert and so fucking strong— all thick muscles and sharp curves. He’s covered in scars, old and new, and he has dark chest hair that Lambert really wants to run his fingers through—

And his dick is nice too. Large, thick, and flushed red and hard with arousal, pressed up tight against his belly.

“You okay, Wolf?” Aiden asks, a smirk clear in his voice. Lambert realizes he’s staring and clears his throat.

“Not the biggest I’ve taken,” Lambert lies, eliciting a snorting laugh from Aiden.

The Cat kneels on the mattress, looming over Lambert. That familiar prey feeling crashes over him and Lambert freezes, heart thudding hard in his chest.

Aiden braces his hands on the bed by Lambert’s shoulders, his bright green eyes roaming across Lambert’s body, taking in every dip and curve and scar. Lambert fists his hands in the thin sheets, trying to quell the embarrassment he feels at being so observed.

Just as he’s about to make some snide comment Aiden leans down and pressing their lips together. Air leaves Lambert’s lungs with an embarrassing surprised sound. _What the fuck?_

Aiden’s lips are hot and soft against him, holding steady and waiting— letting Lambert get used to the feeling.

It’s weird, and _good_ , and Lambert lets his mouth soften against the Cat’s. Aiden smiles against him.

“You have a really nice dick, Lambert,” Aiden murmurs against his mouth. It shocks a laugh out of Lambert and Aiden rumbles in pleasure, pressing their lips together hard and licking into him. His heart leaps and he opens his mouth wider on instinct, breath stuttering as Aiden consumes him. Lambert should be worried about how easy it is to just let Aiden _take_ —

But it feels so good. And Aiden is being so gentle. He’s used to quick fucks in brothels or behind taverns. This is different, and he’s uncertain what to do…

Aiden drops a hand to Lambert’s side, pressing his palm against Lambert’s ribs—

His healing rib pinches and he hisses in a breath. Aiden freezes, pulling back to look down at him with lust drunk eyes.

“Sorry. You okay?” he asks, breathing heavy. He’s so handsome— dark hair falling across his face, lips puffy and red, eyes wide and _concerned—_

He ghosts a hand over Lambert’s ribcage, barely touching him, and Lambert can’t stand it—

“I won’t break,” he growls. The pain hovers at the edge of his mind and memories want to leak in, Stehlannin’s voice whispering at the edge of his thoughts—

He shoves it away and frowns.

“Don’t pout, Wolf,” Aiden smirks, sliding a broad thumb across Lambert’s lower lip. Heat blooms across his cheeks and he sucks in a sharp breath, shocked by the sensation.

“I know you won’t break,” Aiden murmurs. “But I don’t want you to hurt, either.”

Shit. How does the Cat talk so freely like that? Lambert squirms, rolling his eyes.

“Hurry up,” he demands, moving to turn onto his belly. “Before I change my mind.”

It’s an empty threat, but Aiden takes it seriously judging by how quickly he reaches for the small jar of slick on the bedside table. When did _that_ fucking get there?

Lambert drops down onto his belly, crossing his arms on the bed and hiding his face in a bicep. Lambert rarely does this, and he’s always embarrassed by this part (when it happens), so he’d rather just not see—

He freezes at the soft touch of Aiden’s fingers— not on his ass, but along his spine. He sweeps his hands across Lambert’s shoulders, down his ribs (careful of his injury this time), and pausing at various scars to press into the ruined skin. It’s so shocking that Lambert loses his voice for long moments, absorbed in the feeling of Aiden’s hands against him, touching him so softly—

He clears his throat, shifting on the bed pointedly. Aiden snorts, mumbling about impatience, and Lambert listens to him slick his fingers.

Lambert bites his lip, waiting…

Aiden shifts to kneel between Lambert’s thighs, nudging Lambert’s legs wide with his knees. A warm, slick finger slides down his crack, pressing softly against his entrance and hesitating. Lambert nearly whines.

“You sure, pup?” Aiden murmurs, his breathing erratic.

“Fucking yes, you infuriating—“ Lambert chokes on the words, tensing automatically as a slick finger presses into him.

Aiden stretches him expertly; first one finger, then two, then three. Recognizing the frustrated shift of Lambert’s hips as an indication to hurry up, he pulls away and reaches for the jar again.

The sound of Aiden slicking his dick makes a shiver of anticipation slide up Lambert’s spine and he can’t help the way his hips jerk once against the mattress—

Aiden’s shaking hands press into Lambert’s hip, guiding him up onto his knees. The Cat shifts his knees to rest right up against the back of Lambert’s legs and his hot erection slides against Lambert’s ass— a burning line of heat resting against his entrance—

“If you don’t put your dick in me right now—“ Lambert grits out. The rest of his sentence dies on his lips as Aiden shifts his hips and presses into him.

“Ah,” Lambert hisses, struggling to suppress his instinct to pull away from the intrusion. Gods the Cat is _big…_

“I love when you’re bossy, pup,” Aiden says, voice wavering.

“Don’t call me that,” Lambert mumbles, overwhelmed by the feeling of Aiden in him. His hands, clenched against Lambert’s hips, let go and drop back down into the mattress.

The strong, solid heat of Aiden’s chest presses against his back and Lambert moans, arching his back up against the Cat. Aiden hum in approval, biting playfully at Lambert’s shoulder.

“I’d rather see your face next time,” Aiden whispers into his ear. Lambert’s muscles lock up.

Next time? As in…Aiden wants this to happen again? He doesn’t even know if Lambert is a decent fuck yet—

“Ready?” Aiden asks, shifting his hips to brace himself better.

Lambert is going to combust from embarrassment.

“Yes, for fuck’s sake, Aiden,” Lambert growls, fed up. All the tension since they had first met rolls in his chest, burning to spill out—

“Fuck me—“ he snarls.

A slow, easy roll of Aiden’s hips has him clenching his jaw in shock.

_Oh._

Aiden lets out a moan— low and honest and overwhelmed— and Lambert shoves back against him, trying to get him to move—

“Easy,” Aiden mumbles, voice taut. His hands shake against the bed and Lambert smirks.

Fine. He can play this game too.

“Harder,” he demands, rolling his hips back. “Fuck me like you mean it, Aiden.”

Aiden’s careful control snaps and he growls, setting up a hard rhythm, rolling his hips just right into Lambert and making his breath punch out of him. His erection throbs, heavy between his legs, and he feels slick pre-cum drip out of him. Gods he’s never been so aroused—

And he’s definitely going to be sore tomorrow, but in the best possible way—

“Lamb,” Aiden breathes, pressing burning open-mouthed kisses along his shoulders.

The soft brush of his chest hair against Lambert’s back feels abruptly too intimate— too good—

One of Aiden’s hands sneaks down, gripping Lambert’s neglected erection and squeezing. He lets out a sound, choked, and Aiden’s breath gusts across his neck.

Pleasure sparks along his spine as Aiden rubs along his dick, and if Lambert had any question as to whether Aiden has done this before, it’s gone now. He squeezes and jerks Lambert expertly, thumb rubbing against the dripping slit, sliding his fingers along the glans under the head, slipping down to cup his balls before doing it all over again. All the while he keeps up the rolling of his hips, pressing into Lambert, claiming—

“Come for me, Lambert,” Aiden demands, rolling his hips perfectly—

Lambert spills with a shocked gasp, feeling himself throb in Aiden’s hand. His vision whites out as heat floods up his spine.

He whines in overwhelm _(“whore—“_ a nasty voice snarls at the back of his mind) and Aiden growls, chest rumbling against Lambert’s back. The Cat loses his rhythm, rutting into Lambert and chasing his orgasm. There’s a sharp bite at his shoulder and Aiden groans, pressing hard against Lambert and spilling heat into him. Breath shivers out of Lambert and he gasps at the feeling, heart thudding hard against his ribs.

Aiden collapses against him, dropping them both to the thin mattress. Lambert's rib protests but he shoves it away easily. The room is full of their heavy breathing and sex scent, and Lambert would spare a moment to be embarrassed if he didn’t feel so fucking satisfied. Aiden slides a hand under Lambert to press against his belly, right above his spent dick.

“’M gonna pull out,” he warns, and Lambert nods, unused to someone actually giving him a warning—

It’s an odd feeling and he grimaces, clearing his throat in discomfort. But Aiden is there, cleaning them off with a towel and pressing kisses against Lambert’s skin. He throws the towel across the room and flops back against the mattress, smiling broadly at Lambert.

“Gods, Wolf,” he mumbles, kissing along the nape of Lambert’s neck. He’s pretty and flushed, hair mussed and eyes calm.

Lambert hums, unsure what to do—

But Aiden takes the lead, wrapping himself around Lambert and tugging him back against Aiden’s chest. He presses his face into Lambert’s hair and sighs contentedly, settling down to sleep.

Okay. Sleeping. He has never slept next to someone he’s fucked before, but if Aiden wants that then he can try. Lambert feels himself drifting off into unconsciousness, surrounded by the Cat’s rosemary scent and hot arousal, and thinks:

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lambert has some negative self talk and some unhealthy ideas about sex.


End file.
